The Commonwealth is a land of contrasts... (Semi-Closed RP)

[The Freethinkers]

Clodius was many things to many people. Warrior, hunter, icon of a religion, god manifest, bodyguard, symbol of a dying race, monster, tyrant, friend, master, lover… Fundamentally though, he was a beast, physical power tempered by a methodical mind, a mind now turned, starting from a simple but fantastically honest conversation to the political destiny of his people.

He stood in the central atrium of his not-inconsequential palace in Navarrok, a giant circular, open hall built in the favoured style of vampires, pillars reaching skyward above the raised floor he now stood on, almost nude as his attendants, a small group of young, mostly but not exclusively female vampires (he had his weaknesses, but he was hardly a tyrant for them, and it was technically government funded. He was thankful it stayed off the expenses sheet). He was preparing for the human parliament, as a vassal, he wasn’t a minister nor technically held other authority there, but his was needed for his opinions and his word carried weight regardless.

He shifted his thick, brawny arms as two young females approached, appreciatively curvy, named Calise and Cellana, different only in one (Calise, though he had trouble remembering the fact) had jet black hair and the other choose a wavy ivory for herself. Both wore it, given they were technically military, extremely long, almost down to their hips, and in the light breeze that flowed through the room it parted in gentle waves. They wrapped him in the cloth like underclothes that would sit beneath his ceremonial armour. Enjoying their work they took their time. Clodius wasn’t complaining at the massaging touch of their fingers as they moved over him.

Other milled around him too. The two males of the group, one a young albino vampire, whose condition gave him an almost ethereal air named Rasga, another larger, older drake, more scarred and muscle bound with the human name of Elliot, surprisingly given he was into his vampiric culture as any of their kind could be. They were his as well, but given Clodius, despite the complex social needs of his breed, had little inclination for much of the groups intention (he choose a couple of the females at most and even then for only brief sojourns), their role was as much to keep the rest of the harem satisfied and taken care of as it was to look after their master’s needs.

The others were older females, Atia, who carried a Middle Eastern air about her style and her veiled clothing choice (well, they were all to various degrees scantily clad. Such was the uniform of their profession. Well made and very sexy all the same) who at this juncture leaned up and began ensuring his face and hair were clean and styled appropriately. Her companions, paler, with dark ebony hair for contrast, Sora and Clara, stood with the packs of sculpted armour ready to adorn their ruler.

The armour itself was heavy, near solid gold was, but it had been incredibly well crafted, sculpted in classical Greek style. Built for his full range of movement, the armour carried the distinctive segmented pauldrons and waist protectors common to most heavy Freestian armour, and on the inside, for extra weight-increasing fun sat a full set of ghoul-grade ballistic and heat dispersing panelling. Given it weighed the same as a fully grown adult man, well, that was just great. Thankfully Clodius’ strength was more than up to the task. Shame about bastard heat stroke from time to time…

---

Cabinet briefings did not bore or necessarily find her wrong-footed, but Prime Minister of the Commonwealth of the Freethinkers, Dame Sarah Farahind, disliked them intensely all the same. It was more their unpredictability that annoyed her, some could be intense, near shouting matches; some were simple boring quota discussions around the table. It was the fact she never actually knew, however, what it would involve or what issues would be bought up that truly got to her. She enjoyed being prepared. Democracy tended to blast that to hell.

They (as in the Freestian government, the cabinet and aides) sat along a huge, polished, glass table (chosen for metaphorical, and, thanks to one former perverted member, literal transparency) in a room originally intended to form the archives in Government house. A long pillared hallway inhabited now only by the cabinet and their individual records, along with a few hot-bunking work stations for the same, filled out along the massive marble-floored and granite-walled gallery. It meant every word echoed and privacy around the table was impossible and yet beyond it absolute. Two guards stood outside the dual oak doors that lead into the chamber but apart from that, nothing else overheard the conversations that took place there. It was strangely reassuring.

The cabinet and other dignitaries was an eclectic mix of humans and ghouls. Alex Broxtowe, young raven haired party jumping foreign secretary, moderately experienced but enthusiastic about his job and now an institution in himself despite his tender years. Cunningham, old Admiral, now the Minister of Defence, big, bloated, jovial, looking like a figure used to advertise Midlonian tea brands. Interior Minister Chris Barham, son and protégé of his father, mouse coloured hair and a tan that matched Sarah’s own. And finally Claire Fairbanks, of the treasury, as a human much shorter than Sarah and with slicked back red hair, she couldn’t have been a greater contrast. Looked good in glasses though, which Sarah agreed with her male colleagues on, damn her Freestian preferences.

Then the rest of the table. Six seats in the middle of the glass oval; for the Tribune Marshal and the five senior services commanders. Only two were occupied, both by ghouls here in contrast to the government ministers. The towering Tribune Marshal Bywater, even in plain black uniform and boots a terrifying eight foot tall, and with a complexion and build it would be easy to think someone had painted an Ork pink. His companion, Marshal of the Land Forces, was a smaller (though at six foot eight and stockier than Sarah herself the term was relative) Herne four ghoul named Caroline Mitchell, athletic, a long, almost artistic scar across her nose, matched with the more typical shoulder length black hair her kind were normally seen with.

And beyond the marshals’ sat the city representatives, Abha Amris of Benarbor, dark skin and matching hair, a slender form even by human standards, Jaime Quixonta, of Port Blanche, Knootian if you went back very, very far and yet looked like he had just stepped off the plane from that very place. Kais Tyre, a Herne two of Delta City, he was from a family that had lead the city’s administration for many generations now. Cora Sanguine, of Ademsea, she was a pretty young thing, the youngest of them all, pretty and not yet disillusioned with the whole process of political machinations. Carlos Bard, of Portanova, former sailor, the toughest human Sarah had laid eyes on. She swore he had some ghoul in there.

To round off the roster, the representatives of the colonies and provinces, the head of their councils and assemblies, sat with the city representatives. Jane Foster, of the far-flung Fargon province, pale blonde Nordic features sharply in contrast to her fellows. Commandore Chris Celle, of the Freethinker Navy, governor of the havenic Olympia province, who kept himself to himself, rarely speaking save for one or two smart comments, and finally Stephen Trader, head of the civilian agency that oversaw the off world colonies until they developed into true self governance.

Wonderful people, or at the very least they weren’t Roanian,…and back to the discussion at hand.

“…and so, we agree, Aid funding for Allanea to be increased to improve education as to the dangers of hallucigens in water supplies. Motion passed. Next item, Cunningham, the new defence contract, the war design Frigate program, you have news for the table.” Broxtowe, as meeting chair, stated simply. He could have only sounded less interested if he was actually dead. His yawning didn’t help as he doodle a big boobed elf on the corner of his minutes.

“Indeed.” Cunningham began. If walruses could speak people would think it would sound like him. His facial hair, beautifully crafted, didn’t help. “I am pleased to announce gate authorisation has completed. The contract has gone to the FDI shipbuilding division, yes I know no surprises. Subcontracting has been,…” He paused for a moment. “For efficiency and cost control purposes the remainder of the hulls will be completed by the Balfour Beatty Yard in Dardanion.”

That got a reaction. Half the city reps shoot up, Ricardo raised an almost burnt off eyebrow and even Broxtowe’s elf got an unfortunate moustache.

“What?” Three of the city representatives yelled in unison. The loudest was Abha, who half rose from her seat. “But this had already been agreed in committee to head to the Burnington-Devon Group…”

“Oh, brilliant, another yard gone under, surprisingly not a Northern one, again.” This was Quixonta, coming to the support of Abha.

“Enough, all of you!” It was an admonishment to them both but her final gaze rested on Abha for a moment, almost in admiration. “This government favours the most cost effective bid irregardless of the geographic origin of said bid.” She said this simply, but there was a tone of impatience in the explanation. “Really…”

“And your Midlonian didn’t have anything to do with it.” Farahind turned her eyes to sharply focus on Abha. Collective gasps echoed, and most eyes followed the sight of the Prime Minister.

“My personal life is not for discussion.” Sarah said simply, in a tone that reinforced the words with more than a hint of dread. “And, for the record so it does not need repeating, the personal lives and endeavours of any of the occupants of this room are also not up for speculation or baseless accusation. Moving on…”

“But it is not personal, is it?” Abha offered curtly, her delicate features locking into a determined gaze, her companions on either side slowly shuffling away. Sarah locked eyes this time, not even blinking, silent fury hinted on pursed lips.

There had been tension growing for quite some time over the Midlonian question. Sarah was effusing to disengage from a relationship with the young King of Midlonia, the former Colonial ruler of the Commonwealth and despite two horrifically bloody wars was still one of their primary allies. It was an extraordinarily awkward relationship giving how close the countries were moving back together. Given the rather, historic Navarre- centrism of Sarah’s government and her colleagues as well, the city and colony reps frequently found themselves butting heads at these things.

But the actual relationship had always been off limits, certainly before Abha had arrived. Arriving on the same election cycle as Cora, she had yet to be cowed by the needs of compromise and favour, and she had been dropping sly hints for weeks about Sarah’s government and to where influence really lay. Sarah in turn found her arrogance annoying, and Abha’s attacks had carried alongside their intended jobs an undercurrent of stereotypical barbs against ghouls that humans had used for a long while.

“Do you have some basis for this line of questioning, Abha?” She said, sharply, finger tapping the desk rather forcefully. Some of her cabinet looked across, Cunningham also seemed interested, seemingly as his puffed moustached face peered at the young representative.

“Just the press. As always these days. I lodged my protest at this authorisation Cunningham. I will inform the defence procurement committee and we will speak to later in regard to it.” Arrogant bitch the five government ministers thought in unison. Not that they could do anything about it…. Not now at any rate.

---

“Minutes agreed. Meeting adjourned. Bar, anyone?” Broxtowe said, finally excited for the first time that day. The military heads and Chris followed him, most of the rest of the officials looked annoyed and instead made beelines as they exited the hall for their own offices. Abha, however, found an uncomfortable grip on her shoulder.

“Miss Amris, a word if I may…” It might have sounded like a request, the tone indicated otherwise. Abha went along for the moment, slightly wary Sarah was waiting for the room to empty before she began speaking. The doors closed finally, and with the air of a teacher telling off a naughty young primary pupil Farahind began.

“As I said. Private lives and personal politics have no place at this level of politics.” The ghoul began simply. “I do not expect them to be discussed in regard to anyone.”

“Tough.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. Anger turned momentarily to curiosity. Abha continued. “I don’t see why this speculation isn’t being investigated by the Comnat, to be frank, Prime Minister.”

Sarah turned angry again, this time far more visible. Abha took a step back. “There are very few things you can say that are more offensive to me, Abha, than the notion I would betray my country to slavers.”

“But you sleep with one.” Abha said pointedly, naively assuming she was Sarah’s equal. “I respect your position and in public I will continue to do so. But my city suffers from your fetish for the mother country so with maximum respect, Sarah, a little less haughtiness on your part would be appreciated.”

Perhaps she had expected the ghoul, now close enough to tower over her, was all bluster. A set of fingers gripping each arm told her different very quickly as Abha found herself shoved back down over the table, almost hurting her head as she was flung back.

“You’re insane!” Abha whispered, Sarah smiled now, back in control. Power plays played across her subconsciously, Abha’s human strength pitifully weak compared to the ghoul’s vice like grip as she pinned her to the glass.

“No. I am just proactive. This is the Commonwealth, and directness is a virtue, no?” She said, gazing down at Abha, who now had fear etched on her face. “So lets, sort this out the old fashioned way.” Sarah pulled back, flipped Abha over so she now rested against the table on her stomach, and pinned the hands of her opponent in the small of her back. A hand raised, followed by a sharp crack as the doors at the end of the room burst open.

Clodius walked into the room, the doors swinging forcefully behind him with a resounding thud. He looked concerned, the force he had exerted indicating his personal restraints on his strength were off, at least partially. He looked over the scene briefly, his face dispassionate but momentarily puzzled as it surveyed the scene. “Sarah?” His low voice caused the room to almost hum in respect of his power. Both women looked up, Sarah loosing her grip and backing away as the vampire’s appearance brought her back to her senses.

“Clodius.” Both said in low voices. Abha’s was trembling, but now realised she was now free and backed up sharply, taking a second to adjust herself and restore her dignity as much as she could.

“Whats going on here?” He asked, solemnly, his brain not fully registering the scene from what he had heard outside.

“The others?” Sarah asked, looking over Clodius’ shoulder.

“Were going down the corridor.” Clodius looked down at Abha. “My apologies for entering. Looks like you two were…”

“She attacked me!” Abha screamed out, “that bitch abo…Sarah restrained and was going to attack me over an earlier dispute.” She corrected the near racist remark. Sarah looked, well, like she had for most of the afternoon. Abha swallowed but continued. “She is unhappy that I raised the issue of her improper relationship and its impact of the integrity of this government.” She finished. Sarah could have killed her.

“How! Dare!...” The ghoul closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, but Clodius raised his hand with an air of final authority. “Please, ladies. Quiet.” He looked at them both. “Abha. I know what Sarah was doing was unacceptable. However you also know she could have justified a goddamn duel with what you have been saying in recent weeks. Get back to your offices, file a complaint if need be, but now is not the time to carry on this discussion.” Abha and Sarah swapped expressions, his words may have officially carried no weight, but there was no argument, before the human picked herself up properly and walked out past Clodius.

“Out of the way rex.” She gave one last snipe as she departed as she passed Clodius, who ignored her completely. Things were getting worse.

[The Freethinkers]

Memorial Park was not an original name, but it carried weight regardless. It stretched out, thirty miles in length and perhaps two to three wide, going from the western approaches of the Government Plaza right the war down to the basin. Through its centre ran the shallow, literally wade-able River Navarre, named after the city who’s capital district it flowed through.

Of course any person with more than a passing familiarity with Navarre would happily inform you the City of Navarre doesn’t exist. Indeed, there was no geographic entity called Navarre, no city limits, no districts save perhaps for the Navarrian Region, but even this did little to collate to the huge urban metropolis itself. What most people called Navarre was actually a contiguous urban area encompassing maybe forty unique city sized units, mutually integrated, stretching across an area the size of the Freestians’ motherland. It took two hours alone to fly across, a thousand miles from one extreme to the other. The population density was less than that of many capitals and urban conglomerates around the globe.

And it housed a huge number of people; nearly two billion souls could call themselves Navarrian, nearly twenty percent of the population of the Commonwealth, crammed into one percent of the land area. To say there was a broad selection of people here would be an understatement, and the trading relationships and fractal stability of the nation meant sooner or later a few people of every creed, nationality and species made their home here.

Going back five centuries, the valley between the Whitestone and Carassians mountains was one of the few places civilization could take hold in the otherwise hellish Mainland. The coastal plains, small in the context of the country as whole but provided thousands of square miles of prime arable land for the first settlers. The huge inland basin was a huge, well protected natural harbour, and the massive mountains to the north and south provided both protection from the harsh desert encroachments and the native wildlife. Within their slopes huge quantities of metallic ore lay for the taking.

Midlonia in their time of rulers were avid builders and diggers, methodically expanding the harbour, farming and mining settlements, sending back huge quantities of raw materials to the overcrowded Kingdom. In return came cash and people. Brave pioneers, men of means, men of industry, soldiers wishing to cut their teeth and explorers, the greatest generation some have argued that nation had ever produced. With steam and steel the cities grew, finally meshing with each other as the stream of people arrived, a thronging sea of people…

From these origins the wealth and prestige of Navarre as a port perhaps become clear. The economic effect is known as industrial clustering, related industries and service providers springing up when factors combine to form a haven for a particular trade. Navarrian shipyards sprang up, at first to simply fill the great demand for ships the flow of material (and guarding it) created, cheap iron, cheap coal, cheap strong labour in the form of the newly emerging ghoul working class and the economic freedom of being thousands of miles from the central bureaucracy of Swadlincote meant the yards and docks soon took primacy over their Midlonian competitors, merchants, their banks and commodity markets and registries and a host of other industries feed into an economic behemoth. Some of it perhaps flowed out, but enough stayed to grow these industries. Steam and steal replaced horse and stone, railways and newly minted consumers demanding ever more goods to sate their newly found and able desires.

And the Dominion of the Mainland had provided.

Memorial Park had once been known as the Motherland Park, a gift of the Greater Kingdom government back in the days of colonial occupancy. It had been built in the ‘Jerusalem’ style of natural garden creation, small rolling hills with succulent green grass and Midlonian native trees. Peacocks and a few of the more harmless native species, elegant pink wolves, magnificent Freestian swans that fluttered on the water of the shaped and carved river. It was shady, pleasant, smelled beautiful, and its size meant the huge granite and marble edifices of the leviathan government buildings were now mere sculptures in the distance.

The Freestian love of water features figured too, the giant Emperor fountains, shooting jets of water a hundred metres into the balmy sky. Small canals, part of the extensive waterway system peeled off the river, crossed by elegant stone bridges and lined with willows and the occasional Greek style gazebos. Statues hid in small glades, small monuments rose in the names of lost loves and local heroes. The only clue as to how the place got its later name lay in the small, marshy pools that littered the green of the park, the remnants of heavy calibre shell holes from a time when war came here…

---

Clodius stretched out in the sun, out of armour, out of clothes save for a few strategic bits of cloth. Freestians were exhibitionist but they weren’t Allaneans, and tried to be at least moderately conscious other people might exist. Sarah sat near him, dipping bare feet into the cool waters of the Navarre, long hair let loose, her robes fluffed out to let the breeze run through. Clodius closed his eyes and hummed lightly, enjoying the weather in the way only a poikilotherm could.

“I screwed that up didn’t I?” The ghoul asked simply after a few minutes contemplation. It hadn’t been full on silence, the laughter and chatter of other patrons of the park grounds had filled the air beforehand. Children splashed in the cool waters, couples strolled, even the teaming multitudes of office workers had stripped down to t-shirts and cut-offs, bringing laptops to pull off million Mintel deals whilst sunbathing.

“Oh yes, but, I’ll be honest…” Clodius didn’t open his eyes, indeed, aside from his lips he remained stationary. “It won’t do much more than add ammunition to either side. Your supporters will feel she was setting you up, hers will take it as a sign of your inability to cope under pressure. Your poll ratings will yo-yo like a pointy’s knickers and that will be that. Such is government.” Sarah blinked, pausing for more than a few moments.

“I just… damn, I hate her, but I don’t know why…” Sarah bit her lip. “Well, aside from being an arrogant small minded bitch with the worst attitude I have ever seen in a government minister. But why is she like that? I only reacted badly after she started sniping…”

“Careful, you’re sounding remarkably human there.” The ghoul turned around and, with a small splash, turned so she was resting on her knees, looking at the vampire. He didn’t react as before, acting like a lizard in a zoo exhibit more than anything else.

“What do you mean by that?” She asked pointedly, still annoyed from earlier.

“Its her fault, yes? That’s a human conceit, assuming all issues are the fault of another.” Sarah cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “And don’t give me that gesture either. Come on Sarah, no one defines themselves, no one with more intelligence than a brick or an Aumani at any rate, by their hatred of another. She doesn’t, or should I say didn’t hate you, personally, just what you happened to be. Navarre-and-Midlonian centric. Of course today I suppose you could add ghoul to that list…”

Sarah looked pained. “Yeah…I’ve never heard her so vicious before today.”

“She might just have been angry, mind, and we all do stupid things when we get genuinely annoyed.” A soft chuckle from his remark, Clodius finally rose up, slightly. “Of course, she perhaps revealed something, you forget, Sarah, that up until you arrived ghouls were the nice, tough people downstairs, the miners, the uneducated workers, people who would do what you ask for a pittance and do it well and, perhaps in a relic of the Midlonian age knew their place and kept to it.”

“What are you talking about?” A flick of blond hair, “that’s hardly the attitude of the country, is it?”

“Sarah, hun, let me explain something. There are advantages and disadvantages to having my lifespan. I get to beat my human critics of my position by simply ignoring them and waiting for them to die. Unfortunately it means I have been witness to less enlightened times. I got shit from these apes, and I could tear a man apart with my thumb. Trust me, the first time your breed appeared the whole debate about even letting you live was terrifying. Oh, I’m sure you’ve read about it but believe me it was vicious…” He paused, gauging her reaction. Sarah remained silent, her turn to listen. “Course, you proved useful and humans, once they learn to make of profit they will forgive themselves and others pretty much anything. But…”

“We’re taking over.”

“Yeah…” Clodius muttered. “Never forget what a siege mentality can make people do. Abha has plenty of genuine reasons to be pissed, and every feeling she can tap to support her cause she will. Don’t dance to her tune, but in turn don’t assume it is some personal vendetta against you either.”

“Or what I am…” She finished herself, looking down. “I don’t often get reminded these days that I am a separate species…”

“It comes with the limelight.” Silence, momentarily, then a birdcall. Finally, “I’d worry about Hykar myself.” Clodius broached the subject. “Perception matters in politics, more than anything else. I know you and I know you know how to keep it personal, but it doesn’t matter if people believe otherwise. You can’t, err, physically reprimand all your critiques, Sarah. And not every ear is going to give you a fair trial to prove yourself. You have to be extraordinary, and you have to be beyond any attack.”

Sarah nodded and leaned back to sit upright, her face pensive. Her hand found his, an unspoken gesture of loyalty, the strength reassuring to feel back, and both sat in the glow of a glorious summer evening.

[Menelmacar]

And as steam and steel had faded in their turn, at least to some extent, in their place had come gravity and neutronium fuel and the sky and stars, and exotic metals and alloys not easily named save by a dozen competing trademarks. The Menelmacari had been one of the foreign merchant realms most widely represented in Navarre in recent years; the central business districts of the vast urban quilt that was the Freestian capital boasted more than a few of the tall, elegant, sliver-like towers housing regional offices of Menelmacari banks and shipping firms, as well as many interests commercial and residential alike, but not Menelmacari at all, simply renting space in the Elven spires on their landscaped grounds -- a taste of Vinyatírion away from Vinyatírion.

Yet even these were dwarved by the great Vingilot freighters that came and went over the harbor, often visible from the farthest reaches of Navarre. Two cubic kilometers of cargo rode aboard the great modular ships, some of which could tell the tale of centuries, and they docked and loaded and unloaded in much the same way as the standard oceangoing ships -- beside a pier lined with containers and cranes. They had purpose-built facilities, scaled up to fit their vast bulk. Sometimes the modules -- themselves two hundred meters long or more -- were detached and attached wholesale, when a ship was on a tight schedule. Other times, when cargo was mixed, more specialized cranes and equipment would extend directly into the holds to fetch out what was needed.

There were few other port cities on Earth, most of them in Menelmacar itself, suited to being such a hub for interstellar shipping -- largely because few other cities on Earth could rival the sheer scale of Navarre's port facilities, or the number of shipping concerns that served the port, or a business climate that so nicely fit Menelmacari needs and preferences. Fewer still could boast all these factors at once. So it was that Navarre, port of ports, was ranked in the highest echelon of cities in its importance to the Elven empire. And in return the Elves could be counted among the lifeblood of Navarre, often the first port of call for goods from beyond the stars, and just as often the last for the exports of the home world. Matters in Navarre were of great interest to Menelmacar, certainly including the unrest and division that seemed to be brewing even as the ships came and went.

[Midlonia]

CGKHQ, Swadlincote, Midlonia. 1.a.m

William Bucknall was the new leader of the CGK Party. He was younger than his predecessor, Benjamin Mussotana. The old Prime Minister had announced his retirement and Bucknall had won the fierce open leadership election.

Bucknall was sat on a slightly rickety plastic chair and was chewing his finger slightly as he watched the plasma television on the wall. He was just 35 and the youngest leader of any political party in Midlonia ever, he was also the first technical off-worlder, having been born on Mars but in Midlonia's colony of Victoriana.

He had sleek blonde hair that was cut in a slightly messy way, allowing him to have a rather unruly mop of hair that got worse whenever a gust of wind happened on him. His sparkling blue eyes and slight paunch of a stomach with his slightly untucked shirt completed the rather odd man who had already proven himself a major political mover during his time as Education Minister.

Bucknall was a radical, and made absolutely no bones about it and expressed his opinion when he saw fit. During his time as Education Minister he had revolutionized the way the school system worked, the old regionalized and slightly top-down system had been replaced with each pupil being assigned a monetary value which the parent was given control over. This had seen thousands of new, small, well run schools spring up and had caused the state-controlled one to buck up their ideas sharp lest they run out of money and have to close.

By giving control of the education system to the people who cared the most about it, the parents, had seen Bucknall soar in approval ratings. He had won the resulting open primary for the leadership when Mussotana announced his retirement by some 25% over his rival, the defence Minister Thomas Roth, who sat next to him now. Bucknall had invited the financial genius, a modernizer and 'efficiency nut' to be his Chancellor.

“I'm so bloody nervous.” Bucknall muttered, his hand going from his mouth to run through his hair. “Really, bloody nervous.”

“So much more shit-inducing when you're in charge, huh Bill?” Tom said with a chuckle, he was a man with salt and pepper hair and was some 10 years older than Bucknall his black eyes sparkled a little mischievously.

“Yes, so shut up.” William replied with a laugh.

The television moved on from the inane banter that had been going on between the news reporter and a political blogger, and morphed into a map of the Greater Kingdom itself.

“And now for the results of the 546 A.U General Election.” A trumpet fanfare played along with a crescendo of drums as the map flickered into two colours, the map breaking into multicoloured dots between the three main parties. Red for the Labour and Socialist Party, Blue for the Conservative and Greater Kingdom party, and then the green of the Midlonian Front.

The map started flickering as seats were gained and lost across the Greater Kingdom itself, the initial look was mostly gains across the south and midlands, but support was lost in the North East, but gained in the North West. Eventually in the initial result was that of 326 seats to the CGKP, 200 to the Midlonian Front, and then 120 to the LSP.

The CGKP was quiet, of the first set was just a majority of 6. However there was still a further 300 seats up for grabs from the rest of the country and the colonies.
The map changed to show off the other colonies, the Falcon Isles off of the Freethinker immediately changed to blue. Akuma was slightly different, some MF seats changed to blue, but the majority went over to the purple of the Akuma Independence Party, or AIP. Birchester became very specky, the few MF seats vanished, but the Labour and Socialist Party made significant gains across the colony with the CGKP holding it's gains from Musotana's day.

Finally came the colonies on Mars, Victoriana. The cheer went up at this point, the whole colony bar two seats turning into a wash of blue. It seemed that Mars voted for one of it's sons in their droves.

The results talley began to whirr to the side as the maps vanished, a model of Parliament appearing denoting all 972 seats. Figures in various colours began to appear on the benches, many blue figures washing across the right hand side of the commons. The tally came up at last, glowing on the screen

CGKP: 506
MF: 290
LSP: 176

The champagne corks burst, the cheers went up and the drinks were handed around, a rousing chorus of the national anthem could be heard from the red brick victorian looking headquarters.


Cabinet Office, 10 Kilwarby Street, 10a.m

“Moving onto Foreign and Colonial affairs...” George Hilcrest said as he leafed the next paper aside and took over leadership of the Cabinet meeting. George had survived into the new government because he had continued to do a half decent job on the few times he was actually needed.

“First regarding matters of trade, inter colonial trade is up by about 5% by the back end of this quarter, which is good for us as it's in contrast to the last two quarters where trade slacked off by about 15% over the 6 month period. Energy trade in various things such as Oil, and nuclear material increased by 4.5% between ourselves and the Commonwealth, continuing the trend. Now obviously this is more under the economic affairs of the FCE ministry, but I thought I should highlight the Commonwealth and trade in particular. At present we're trading just below that of the Menelmacari in Navarre, their larger internal economy and extra-solar assets means that drawing level with them in the Navarre market is going to be extremely difficult, however I believe an investment in a new series of gravity as well as more conventional ships could see us competing against the Menelmacari in transportation of goods and trade from Menelmacar.”

The Cabinet, for a change, was respectfully quiet during this portion of his speech.

“However, trade matters should be nothing compared to the political problems that rocked the Commonwealth earlier today, there have been rumours circulating from various contacts that there has been expressions of tension in recent days and weeks due to Prime Minister Farahind's... close relationship with The Castellion. This has led some of the elected city representatives to feel resentful when the Midlonian Contractor, Balfour Beatty was awarded the contract for the next generation of Freestian Warships due to underbidding a local contractor in another city. This has caused a representitive by the name of Abha Amris to shoot her mouth off about her relationship with His Majesty, blaming the relationship rather than basic economics.”

“How does this effect our own dealings with the Commonwealth?” Buckingham asked as he leant forward. “It's fairly important we keep the Commonwealth on board after all, most of our off-world trade goes via either Ashby or Navarre, their facilities have become a lynchpin of our own trading because they've always been better placed to organize and send trade off planet and around the world than anywhere else!”

“As it presently stands, relations remain normal, but it's possible any potential expansion of Midlonian consortiums and companies may be stifled by city opposition. Several companies had been planning on moving out to the cities away from Navarre if the rail links could be improved. This is now in jeopardy due to the resistance from the cities who are, for all intents and purposes a bit backwards due to their slightly more isolated and hardy nature.” the latter half was said slightly sarcastically evoking a few chuckles from around the table. “As it stands, it might be prudent to play down the fact the King wishes to go visit Sarah again in the next few days, we were going to tie it up as a state visit, but if the cities are going to play things up a bit too loudly, especially with this popular young upstart it may be best to dampen down such a meeting.”

Buckingham sat back. “No.” was all he said. Most of the heads around the cabinet table nodded in agreement. “This woman is just a city representative, she barely has any power in government. I see no reason to cancel what is basically my first state trip with His Majesty, if he wants to go gallivanting off with the Prime Minister at night, then that's his prerogative. Just as long as he doesn't cut into the general niceties and meetings set up.”

The first state visit in several years between the heads of state of both countries was scheduled on an official level. There had been a number of visits between the leaders of both countries recently, but they were unofficial and related to great, formerly secret crises that had shaken both countries.

It was to be a massive pomp and circumstance visit, all the stops to be removed to reforge the closing links between the two nations that had warred several times with each other. There was bound to be protests, there usually was in a place as diverse as the Commonwealth.

It was scheduled for about a month's time.

[The Ctan]

Carmine Fostar found the vista before her reminded her a little of home. The necron tomb-world’s hinterland was a dry, sandy scrub, parched by an ominously large star overhead. The gun she had in her hands was distinctly heavy; and there were drones out to get her – when their missiles hit, they hurt, a lot – or rather, they bounced harmlessly off her armour, which then gave her a prodigious shock by nerve induction.

Another drone, little more than a few inches wide – the kind of thing one might shoot for sport, appeared on her heads up display, magnified greatly to even allow her to see it. Panting, she dropped to her knees and fired.

She looked around, the sensors on her armour not being too helpful over this kind of distance. So far the things had only really come in groups of two or more, so she doubted that this was an exception. Way across, almost one hundred and eighty degrees, one of the drones was skipping along the ground, bouncing on its jets like some kind of hopping animal.

She shot that one too.

So far she’d covered about thirty miles this morning, at a solid run, ahead of the three other members of her unit.


Again, she cursed whoever it was who’d sent them to Metresi IV. The group had been the marines assigned to a mission several years ago, to infiltrate a necron tomb-complex there; there’d been no real point to it. She thought it was someone’s idea of a political gesture, but it was, she thought, a rather misguided one. They had all been captured in short order, both the marines themselves and the navy crew who’d come with them.

As prison terms went, she couldn’t really complain. The necrontyr policy was to avoid institutionalising prisoners, and so, while they retained an option of custodial sentences in prisons, prisoners were encouraged to seek alternatives – such as abiding with life supervised by dedicated scarab drones. The necrontyr claimed that one of the most-cruel punishments for social creatures like humans (or ghouls) was to deprive them of contact, institutionalise them with other transgressors. Not only was the loss of time from one’s life considered inhumane – a legacy of times long past – but the damage done to one’s socialisation was considered counterproductive. As such, the four of them had been spending the last few years in the extremely comfortable Garm estate of Lady Arianrian.

A few days ago she’d said they were going to be helping test equipment being designed for Freestian soldiers.

Nearby, she saw a flash of blue light, each of the laser guns was tuned to a different frequency, and with the optical gear they were using, she could see the colours. Hers was red, (Ex) Marine Yulla Tyrian had orange, (Ex) Lance Corporal Perseus had green, and (Ex) Captain Verechek had blue.

They hadn’t been visible like that until Verechek had worked out how to get the beams to ‘detonate.’ None of them had really been given any instructions with these; the designer had said that the objective of these tests were to see how quickly ‘Freestian soldiers of average and below average intelligence can learn to use the equipment without proper training’ – which was quite insulting, really. They’d restrained from smacking the man, simply due to experience.

The devices actually worked by projecting small mirror fields, which they were able to do out to several miles. The ‘explosion’ was caused by creating a spherical mirror field pointing inward, and firing the laser into it. Because the shield wasn’t perfect, it changed the beam to radiate it in a roughly omnidirectional pulse. It wouldn’t be much use against armoured targets at more than a close range, but the sheer amount of power involved would severely injure or kill unarmoured humans and similar species within about ten meters of the blast point.

Carmine could hear Yulla curse nearby, over whatever comms were in these suits. “Stay still,” she snarled, and Carmine turned to take a look at whatever target Yulla was after. It was a ground target, those were damn annoying. Cat-like shapes, camouflaged, that seemed to sneak around the rocks more than anything. It had vanished again, having loosed off a few pin-like missiles that Carmine elminated with a blast from the laser gun.

The weapon they were testing was an impressively solid piece of equipment, comprising a gun-like high powered laser and an armoured, bulky section under the barrel. This housed generators for the mirror-field. The trick of creating planes and surfaces with almost one hundred percent reflectivity was old. A thousand years ago, the Menelmacari had used the same technology in the already-polished hulls of their war-craft. This weapon projected a small field of several shapes, anywhere within a ten degree cone of the gun’s aim, out to a few miles.

There was a flash behind the rocks, as though the drone had just exploded.

Verechek laughed, “This thing can shoot around corners, too,” he said.

Carmine thought about it, and her vision changed, to show behind one of the nearby lips of a crater, a bore-sight view reflected on a mirror-field. Weird, she supposed, but potentially useful. It seemed, from the way the terrain appeared, that it also corrected for mirror reversal.

Useful in theory, she supposed, but a little impractical.


Far above, a hovering scarab watched the four Freestians as they ran across the landscape, almost half way through their course now, and recorded data on everything about them. Its superiors had concluded a deal quite recently to provide new armaments to the Freestian ground forces – this was just one of a variety of concepts due for testing.


Finally, they could see Arianrian, though she was a necron, she seemed entirely organic here – they were dressed for warfare, she wasn’t. She sat at a table, leaning back in the bright sunlight, seeming unphased by it, as they ran uphill toward her. She allowed them to collapse on the ground nearby, and rest for a while, offering them ice water with an evil little smirk.

“Now, ladies, gentlemen… Time for you to try the model four…” she said, opening another box of weapons, this time, deceptively fragile looking ones, and passing them out to replace the model threes.


“Goddamn necron bitch…” Verechek shouted into the communications pickup, knowing full well that she would be monitoring. He’d deal with that in a few hours. When he’d completed the course again. And of course, all the drones had to be in different patterns this time.

“Just like being back in the marines!” Carmine teased.

[The Freethinkers]

King Percival IV, of the House of Svard, was old. Well, not by the standards of many, indeed not even a fair portion of his subjects, but as a simple human his sixty six odd years meant his prime had come and gone. At least he had few regrets, and none concerned the photos that lined his desk.

His two daughters shone from one frame, sitting on the railing of the royal yacht out somewhere in the Rush; Cyriana, black haired, taller than her much younger sister, Salene, both were the spitting images of their mothers. Next to it, a photo of Percival himself, younger, fitter, navy uniform and with a beautiful woman, Matilda, his first wife, is smiling in his arms, her ghoul teeth only vaguely visible in her smile. Another woman, a more recent photograph, Elisa, long red hair along with her more acceptable human fragility, sat next to it. She had helped him get over Matilda’s loss, twenty years ago now.

A pause.

It had been the only true moment of sadness on an otherwise wonderful life.

The old man reclined in his chair. The office around him was, like him perhaps, a reflection of the nation and the values it aspired to. Large, open plan, spartan in decoration and yet masterfully crafted, every drawn angle on the etched, slowly rising floor lay against the pillars that carried the walls, eight sides in total, up about fifty feet to a large, octagonal dome, coated in blue tinted glass that now looked out onto the night sky.

Half the wall panels were lined with book cases and two sets of doors that led to the rest of the palace. The other four, opposite, were lined with long glass windows that stretched to the roof, looking North across the palace gardens, lined terraced affairs interwoven with streams and hedgerows, and out on the ocean, the gentle slope down finally ending in a public beach and than out onto the Basin. Thirty miles from the Government Plaza, one could still circumnavigate the distance between by parkland and forest reserves alone. Such was the advantage of space.

Only the lights of the ships at sea cast significant light, and save from the few lamps that illuminated the outside of the palace walls for the benefit of tourists, the only real source of illumination was the golden glow of a globe that sat in front of the circular desk the King sat at. This globe was special, mapping in holographic ambience the slowly shifting shape of the multiverse, the earth as the tortured plaything of time and space.

A short, curt knocked rapped the door, and Percival turned away from the globe with a sigh. “Enter.”

“Clodius Maxilimus, Lord of Navarrok.” One of the ghoul guards, clad in simple desert fatigues, said solemnly, holding the door open for the vampire. Clodius saluted them both before the guard was dismissed with a curt nod.

Once alone, the King proffered a seat with his hand. He didn’t rise, but they were friends enough to let protocol slide. A bottle of Dominion wine sat half drank on the table, along with a couple of glasses, one a quarter full. Another hand gesture offered some to the newly arrived Lord. Clodius accepted with a courteous ‘thank you.’

“Didn’t know you touched wine.” The first clear phrase the King had spoken.

“It’s a recently acquired taste.” Clodius answered honestly.

“S’fair enough. Good to see you old friend.” The old man smiled, teeth still white, eyes still vibrant for all the lines across his brow.

“Oh aye. Likewise, wish we had a little less business to discuss though.”

“Our job, sadly. We are gifted our talents, our birthrights and it does us well to remember them.” Percival looked over the photographs on his desk again. “And on that thought. You reason for being here Clodius, the candidates…”

“Yes, my King. With your permission…” He passed a file over, containing a data stick and the usual forms and a couple of photos. “I present the candidates. Bruti Tyrasda, of the Tyras clan, simple enough, exceptional fighter as you would expect of his breed, but a bit of an arrogant prick and about as popular as an elvish pension plan.” He moved on. “Aden Seralda, again, Titan, big bloke, like Semp he’s seems to have a bit of plains in him. Smarter, less of a show off, but the Tykes and their cadets aren’t gonna be happy given he’s…how can I put it, not on best of terms with them.” A curt nod. “And finally, Dave. David Dyriamarta.”

The King smirked at the name. “About time you stopped with the Latin crap.” He took a sip from his glass. “But I imagine another Dyria after Semp isn’t going to look too good.”

“And he’s not the strongest. Fast, agile, brave, oh yes, and thankfully has more brains than most. But he’d be challenged every other day at the moment.” Clodius muttered something. “Shame to have lost Sempero, really. I almost miss the sod.”

“Don’t get teary eyed on me son, I know you better than that.” Percival smiled again, a warm but tired expression, leaning forward, placing the file on the desk to scan it properly. “All eighteen footers eh? Catching up on you Clo.”

“I’ll manage.” A sip from the vampire now. “Need to get this position filled before your nephew gets over here.”

“Oh yes, that little pile of hormones.” Clodius raised an eyebrow.

“Thought you liked him.” The vampire said after letting the King read fro a moment, if still shocked then hiding it well. The King nodded in agreement, pointing his head slightly towards another photo that sat off his line of sight a little. It was, appropriately, a baby Hykar, twenty seven years prior, in the arms of his mother, and his father standing next to Percival in a clasp of family love. It was a wonderfully informal moment for all the crisp clothes and photogenic smiles. It was a reminder of how close the bloodlines still were.

“I do. But between him and my beautiful-but-headstrong Prime Minister I can feel some things kicking off. I remember being told that my first duty was always to my country, but somehow that value never quite got fully passed on.” Clodius pondered, rolling the glass slowly in his fingers.

“Times change. We need to change with them,” he said simply.

“Changing times do not concern me. I’m old Clodius, and I have seen many changes…” He said this without irony, despite the vampire opposite having been prowling the deserts before Midlonia was even a country, but nothing was said. “No, it is how little things change deep down that could cause the problem. Sarah should remember there are plenty of people still around with good reason to see Midlonia as much a threat as a friend.”

“Midlonia hasn’t been a threat for a hundred and fifty years, and peace has made us both far stronger than our wars ever did…” Clodius said simply, playing an automatic devil’s advocate, although not disagreeing with his spoken sentiment.

“Clodius, old friend. I love Hykar for he is of my own blood. And I have a place in my heart for our mother country too. But our positions do not allow softness, and if we trust them, or anyone too much, it will always return to haunt us.”

A momentary silence, followed by a low roar as the top panes of glass in the ceiling above vibrated softly. A couple of kilometres above, a giant gravitic freighter gracefully manoeuvred across the night sky, running lights sending arcs of colour along its reflective hull. For a few moments, it blocked out all view of the night sky but for itself in the gaze of the two men below.

---

_{A Quick Snippet of Life}

Bradley yawned a little as he stepped off the pavement. He eyes traced the lines of the area around around him, a small commercial district in Trenton, once the rather sprawling grounds of a brickworks, post industrial transition (as opposed to post industrial decline elsewhere) had seen the old factory replaced with a large number of smaller commercial and craft workshops spring up in the aftermath of the factories' transfer away to occupy the classical buildings. Pedestrian roads led past a rare book depository, a custom pottery place offering free lessons, an indoor paintball arena in a few of the old warehouses, intermingled with cafés and bars.

In the sun and with a little local pride, the area had a lovely rustic charm, vibrant and offbeat. Bradley removed his sunglasses as he finally found the place he was looking for. A bar, an old red brick office nicely done up with some beam work for the inside, some old cruise liner panelling bought on the cheap to decorate the bar, and a host of small chairs and tables both inside and out, stretching onto the grass, pavement and even onto the cobbled road. Nice little place, seagulls aside, the sea was a few miles away but even here one would occasionally pop up. Still, it wasn’t doing much harm as Bradley stepped past and into the fan-cooled interior.

“Cass.” He called to the barkeeper. Some quiet reggae beat drifted from the single speaker. Behind the bar a thin, wispy bearded man, equal in age to the tougher looking Bradley, popped up with a towel and a pair of glasses still wet from being pulled from the dishwasher.

Let off early from work, Bradley was the only customer in the place given it was mid-afternoon. Daytime drinking wasn’t frowned upon in the Commonwealth, but Cass was surprised to find himself fetching a simple, fridge cold soda for his razor haired customer. Quick news passed, a few words to the origin of the song, the conversation took a familiar turn soon enough.

“Early off again? Nice for some.” Both grinned, it wasn’t exactly pleasant all round on Cass’ part.

“Yeah well, can’t complain. It’s fun working for pointies. Can’t beat ‘em for little perks.”

“I’m glad she can afford it. Makes you wonder what she does all day.” The bartender said, using the same cloth to wipe the bar down.

“Don’t know, some economic forecasting I think. They can do the whole seeing the future thing can’t they? Banks fucking piss themselves to get them over. She got to pick her salary, I’m told.”

“Bully for her. Be nice if they could share the wealth a bit.” Cass said, wiping a shot glass stubbornly to remove dried lipstick from the previous night.

“Hey man, she does.” He hand gestures became aides to his explanation. “She pays me mate, I come in here and pay. Multipliers, she said it’s called.”

“Exploitation more like.”

“Fuck you Marx,” Bradley pointed to himself, “no qualifications save a few years at McCall’s place doing the sodding spadework, and she gives me twenty fucking two, and all I gotta do” he paused for emphasis “is check on a few robots doing their things and mow the lawn.”

“She doesn’t have a robot for that?”

“Robots don’t look as good as I do bare-chested.” Bradley grinned, peering at his nearly empty bottle.

“Figures.” A loaded pause. “Another drink?”

“Sure.” Coin flipped again, another soda hit the bar. “”Course, she doesn’t look so bad herself. Nice little two piece…” He traced an hourglass shape with his fingers. “And she lingers, I think she likes the attention. On a not exactly unrelated note, I’m gonna have to bail tonight. Been invited with the rest of the staff out for a meal she’s stepping out for. Should be good, out in Commerce, you know. I need to look killer tonight, see if I can play on ground well sighted.” He took a fresh sip, enjoying th thought along with the taste.

“You ain’t got a chance mate. None of us do.” Cass shook his head, changing the music player to something Midlonian. Soft guitar began to emanate from the speakers as he disappeared into the kitchen. Bradley smirked in half agreement, then began checking his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, trying out confidant smiles, his mind subconsciously wondering what Cass was implying with his last sentence.

[The Freethinkers]

Abha stepped out of the jetway door into the terminal at Benarbor, a government representative ID ensuring her some privacy as a couple of ghoul bodyguard either side of her kept the snapping reporters at bay. The Commonwealth had some interesting privacy and personal violation laws. Any effort to stop her would see one of the giant ghoul bodyguards reduce the perpetrator to a pulp.

They didn’t bother her, of course. Part of being a politician, and ten well spent minutes before landing and a photogenic smile meant at least she was caught at her best. A string of no comments met their questions. “What now for BD?” “Will there be an appeal? Did you provoke Farahind?” The bent on each question depended upon the reporter’s origin, a whole range of the political spectrum was out in force it seemed. Oh well, it was a living for them. Some wouldn’t be having that luxury now. Abha felt the harsh weight of failure on her shoulders, despite her best efforts. Despite everything she couldn’t help but feel that Midlonian stench on it all.

“Ma’am”. A soft tempered voice reached out.

“No…oh.” She could see by the way her guard peeled off slightly that this wasn’t an ordinary campaigner or photographer. Clayton Hermes, the workers representative at BD, in a rather scruffy suit considering, looking forlorn. Given he was going to be out of job in six months.

“Glad to see you home.” He turned on his feet to walk alongside Abha as she passed. She gave him a smile, not being able to think of anything else to say. Her job was safe after all, for all her difficulties.

“I’m sorry.” She finally said. For all her detachment, for all her political surroundings at heart she was home here in this city. Benarbor, second city of the Commonwealth, second to Navarre, true Freethinker heartland is there was such a thing. If one was to include the hinterland of the Green Valley, it was the most populous region in the Commonwealth, and that gave her, perhaps, more weight than most. Certainly no one even in Navarre could ignore her, she had thought.

But she had been proven wrong, and suddenly her small coalition of city elites, brought together after a long period of mutual contempt, had made her a force to be reckoned with politically, able to call some of the shots with MPs even, get Navarre’s premier position knocked down a few pegs; had dissipated just as quickly over the course of a few phone calls.

“Lads know you did your best.” Her companion broke her distant train of thought.

“Its not over yet.” Abha’s reply was determined, but the dark undertone was one of bitterness for a regime. One which now had a very personal slant to it.

---

Abha Amris sighed. Reclining in her office chair any good feelings of belonging and being back were suddenly dispelled as Benjamin Ferris had entered.

Her aide, a civil servant with some interesting hobbies but a good eye for public opinion, had come in within barely a minute of her return. He even looked annoying, somehow, suit too big, comb-over, and a colourful tie. Human, very much so, horribly average it wasn’t even funny. But he did his one job well, and Abha needed that skill more than anything else. Still, the conversation they were having had hurt. And it was getting worse.

“And, it gets better, her backers leaked that you used some interesting terms, including ‘abo.’” He said simply. “That’s going to somewhat justify her anger in the eyes of many. Racist terms do not endear you to the general public that much.”

“Oh god” She place a hand over her face. “That’s going to swing it right back isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Ferris said simply, folding the paper back up. “And it might gain you support from the hum…”

“DON’T”, the palm rose almost up into Ferris’ face. “Even. Joke.” She said without turning to look at him. “Those scum can go to hell.”

“As it may be, you have made some friends. Nonetheless I’ll make sure the relevant people are aware of your strongly held opinion on the matter.” It might have sounded sarcastic from anyone else. Ferris somehow made it sound genuinely sincere and shrill at the same time. She didn’t care though. Abha let the last rays of sun cascade across her dark skin as it disappeared over the mountains. “See to it. Anything else?”

“Yes, you have a visitor booked for after this briefing if you remember?”

“I didn’t get the message.”

“Oh.” There was a knock on the door. “That’ll be her though.”

“What, who?” Abha stood up regardless, ready for some unknown face. She prayed she would at least have a name.

“Jane!” Jane Foster, from the very meeting they had been discussing. The Fargoni looked equally pleased to see her as she came into the office, looking around briefly but approvingly at the decoration. Through the shuttered window the last dying rays of light caught the simple silver jewellery the tall blond haired woman was wearing, tasteful but Freestian spartan in style, a decorated box under her arm.

“Abha. Good to see you. Should’ve took a grav done here.” Jane smiled, Ferris showed himself out.

“I’ll remember,” the Benarbor representative grinned. “Good to see you. Hope its not too hot…”

“I’m used to it by now. Should come up to us sometime!” Jane was referring to the arctic like Fargoni province, almost the diametric opposite of the mainland in terms of weather, but produced similar, hardy people. “I thought I’d pop over to tell you I, and my assembly were impressed by you standing up to the Prime Minister’s selfish actions recently, and to let you know we share in your pain.”

“Thanks.” Abha said, smiling warmly. Jane’s slight, maybe Russian accent was a nice change. “I appreciate it. I take it you have more to come down here for…”

“A few things, my government’s EEZ department has offered to pick up some of the laid off workers if need be, not all of them sadly but if it helps…” She offered a hand in a friendly gesture.

“Oh….I appreciate it. Its not that as such, other yards could pick them up, I think, maybe. Just…”

“The Midlonian.” Jane said simply. “She and he, they are a problem, no?”

“Maybe I am just trying to find excuses.” Abha said simply, sliding into her chair. The lights came on as the level of illumination dropped. Both women blinked in the momentary glare.

“Maybe, maybe not. But irregardless we have, all suffered under her leadership. I, spoke with a few people, Cora and Jaime, we’ve been thinking about how to more effectively represent our interests.”

“Aside from ganging up and kicking her arse in an alley somewhere.”

“Eloquently put Abha. But, our solution involves somewhat less violence…” Did she take the comment seriously? “We are thinking of, core cities, a league perhaps. Promote interest outside Navarre. Obviously Benarbor would provide some weight for that.”

Abha glanced up, finally taking the proffered hand. “That’s…an idea. I didn’t realise others were interested in making a working alliance.”

“You inspired us. We intend when you next meet Farahind we act in concert. Yes?”

Abha smiled for the first time in a while. “Yes. Send details through Ferris. I assume you already have some ideas for initiatives and the like?”

“Of course. This is just forming, this plan. We’ll update you as we get sorted. I think we might bring Cello on board as well.” Jane looked happy Abha was receptive. “And, this, sorry, a present from us. May it inspire you.”

“Thanks. You heading back now?” Abha took the box and peered at it. “Thank you, Jane, I do appreciate it, everything.”

“Don’t worry. I have to head now. Long trip home. Think about my suggestion. We’ll show those Navarrians what, true Freethinkers are.”

“Careful, Jane, sound like you forget they’re Freestians too. Believe it or not…”

“I don’t.” It was a dark note to end on in retrospect as the two women made their goodbyes and Abha returned to her seat, gently peeling open the box and laying it on the table.

It was a flag, a three by two, royal blue, beautifully and respectfully folded. She laid it out on the table, in full view for a moment. Six white stars were strewn across it equally, an almost star like pattern in itself. Abha hadn’t seen the design in some time.

Abha held back a gasp, then folded it and tucked it away. Jane had been talking all right. Abha just hadn’t realised just how much she had truly said.

[The Freethinkers]

The ceiling fan swam lazily through the warm humid air, blowing a soft breeze down onto the bed beneath. The usual cheap hotel affairs, a reasonably large room, double doors leading out onto a small balcony. It was messy, that though was the fault of the occupants.

A man lay on the bed. Man in the loosest sense, seven foot of muscle slapped upon muscle bound together in a torn, stretched skin. Numerous injuries had left marks across the body, and silvered bionics and replaced the left arm entirely, giant patches of silver synthmuscle lashed against the titanium alloy frame.

This was Colonel Theodor Oakland. He had more wars in his memory than you could shake a stick at. He was lain out, unmoving and undressed but covered in a plain hotel sheet beneath the fan, the heat making him feel lethargic and weak. Dull aches from months of marching still lingered in his limbs.

He had a companion. Stretched across his body, lying on top of the covers, lay Colonel Hannah Mace. She had her eyes closed, but Oakland knew she was merely letting her hearing take over for awhile as she rested.

She was Defluo Schola. As hard and as tough as humanity got. She was actually second generation so to speak, her parents had served in the Midlonian army before returning to the Commonwealth, she had grown up in the same lifestyle however, tough even by the standard of ghoul Outbackers. At the age of seven she used to carry fifty pound desert survival rigs. At ten she could strip, service and shoot to a thousand yards a MSLR better than most serving personnel. By twelve she had killed her first Ork. By fifteen she had killed her first with her combat knife.

And so in Oakland’s eyes, this scared, toned, tanned warrior, skin bleached and battered, was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen as she lay as still as he did, clad only in a black tank top and briefs, tranquil was the fury in peace.

It had been a long six months.

They had been leading a battalion of Midlonian Paras, pale, tall, lean and wiry and sprouting tattoos of regiments older than the country they were practising in. They were here for training, in the Freestian sense, and Oakland and Mace had been leading them through the painful gauntlet of infantry exercises in the Commonwealth.

The Paras fucking loved it.

There were plenty of reasons for the exercises, officially. Cooperation practise for the forces, friendship and good will between governments, a host of other nicely worded things about coalition efficiency and equipment testing. But the real reason was ultimately physiological, linked to the eternal problem of morale for volunteer forces.

The Paras were here to prove to themselves that they were as hard and a s tough as they said they were. Soldiers distinguish themselves from civilians in many ways, but the core differential is one of sheer determination. A soldier keeps going no matter what, not for himself, but because in his mates and comrades he has found an eternal source of inspiration. And the only way to truly test those links was genuine combat.

The Midlonians had come here as well trained men with courage and toughness to prove. They had emerged from the hellscape of the Outback as Orkslayers, as killers, as men who had endured for each other through the horrific brutality that the Freestians could provide. This wasn’t an exercise, this was war. Brutal, hard and unrelenting combat. Twenty seven contacts in all; five months and twenty days, fourteen dead, seventy wounded, ten of which were medevaced and the others limping home.

But for those in the remainder, those who had stood outnumbered, who fought for days on end, which had fought dehydration, exhaustion and the godforsaken creatures that inhabited the desert; they had emerged as true warriors, able to hold themselves against any veteran, any human soldier who dared slight them.

Of course, once the had come off exercise, two weeks in the nearest town with six months of back pay, they did exactly what you would expect young lads with money to spare to do.

And that had left time for Oakland and Mace to get better acquainted themselves.

The Freestian thought back over the last few months, and wondered when was the last time he saw Freestian humans doing the same thing. Maybe there was hope for Midlonia after all. Maybe there was hope for them all.

---

Clodius made a dull purring sound as Atia and Calise kneeled on his scaled back, kneading the tense flesh with supple fingers. Stretched out in his full draconic form he was a magnificent beast, and he of late and become more relaxed in treating himself to being active in it. His two servants carefully worked over the muscle, the back of the neck, the wings, it felt wonderful, in retrospect he should have made more time.

Atia stopped; her comrade followed a moment after as footsteps neared. In a wide open atrium in his own palace, there were no doors or barriers in the traditional sense. So the figure had therefore walked unchallenged until reaching this sanctum, Clodius was suddenly angry at the slight as his thoughts formed and yet there was no alarm from his companions.

It was Sarah.

“Clodius.” She said, sounding oddly humble.

“Sarah.” Equivalent exchange. Clodius could tell she wanted to say something but was nervous in this regard. He reared up slightly, letting his harem masseurs jump off as he did so. He was big, even in this almost lazy post, resting on his back legs and twisting his head to scratch with one hind foot behind his head. The gesture seemed very canine, a minivan sized dog. Oh well, he was among friends.

“I wanted to talk.”

“Really.” The redundancy in the statement hung in the air. “I gathered by the unexpected self-invitation.” She made a pained expression and mumbled an apology. Clodius suddenly felt awkward, and lifted an oak trunk sized arm to let her embrace him.

“Sorry, old man.” She whispered into him as she hugged, or at least pressed herself against his chest, taking comfort in the slow, long breaths. “I’ve just….its getting worse. Abha do a little stunt today.”

“I have heard something; I’ve been running the trials for Sempero’s replacement so I can’t say I’ve been keeping up….”

“She got me a present.” Sarah pulled away, and unfurled a piece of cloth she had come in with. She unfurled it on the floor. A flag, the blue banner with six white stars.

“Oh dear. What is this in aid of?” Clodius let off an exaggerated sigh.

“Free cities league. Apparently. I haven’t seen one of these outside a museum before.”

“Figures. And I assume it wasn’t the fact you both share an interest in post war Freestian history regalia that she sent it you?”

“No. They have announced a new caucus, across both the domestic constituencies and the representatives, one based around promoting the interests of their particular city.”

“Hang on, didn’t they do that anyway? The whole ‘representation of a constituency’ thing?” Clodius asked, looking as puzzled as a ton of synapsid predator could.

“Let me rephrase. A caucus, vote as one. So, in truth no, they’re not promoting their own interest, they are opposing my party, and I would hesitate to say it but I will, oppose my own initiatives. Assholes, really, out to wreck my and my friends’ day.”

“I love politics.” The vampire was pleased to see Sarah move into a fighting mood. “So…what? Can’t see it affecting voting or anything beyond how people align anyway?”

“It’s the intent.” Sarah said simply, picking the flag back and examining it closely. “They are beginning to organise opposition to our democracy and raising regional sentiment to help that goal. Benarbor, Ademsea, they are very, very far away, and I think somebody has begun tugging on the strings that bind them to us.”

Clodius looked down from his lofty height. “You’re not scared, are you?” He said after more than a moment, his huge head slowly sweeping from side to the other. Sarah looked back, her expression it all.

[Midlonia]

Freestian Outback, 10 years ago

The creature roared, so far it had taken down nearly 20 men and 5 ghouls. The whole damn detachment sent out there on survival training. It had only been intended to be a short trip for a single week out into the Freestian Outback, just give the lad a taste of the hardest known territory to mankind. They'd sent 20 of the best of the royal guard with him and 6 hardy ghouls from the Mainland Corps to back them up as guides. There were now just two left.

A young lad of seventeen and an older ghoul who'd already served for a number of years in the mainland corps were now all that were left of the party. Between them was a very pissed off looking Sand-dragon.

Ordinarily this wouldn't have been much, by now they would have fled in panic, called for backup or died. However, the seventeen year old was the future King of Midlonia. His safety, and indeed survival as sole heir was vital.

The dragon swung it's claw at the boy again as he leapt backwards, the cleaver falling from his hand as he tried to roll away. The dragon roared and snapped it's enormous jag-like teeth down at him.

Suddenly it wailed in pain, it's head thrashing from side to side and wailing in pain as it suddenly turned to look behind it, allowing the boy to run.

Sarah Farahind stabbed the blade deep in between the scales of the thick leg of the beast before having to let go and turning to run, she had rammed it deep and now she rather uselessly picked up a Midlonian assault rifle and another cleaver. Turning and firing it almost blindly at the armoured hulk as it snarled and started to come after her. She stumbled a little as the training tried to kick in more but the fact was a hundred ton naturally engineered killing machine was bearing down on her whether she liked it or not.

She raised the sword and tried to make ready to at least give the boy more time to run. He was a brat, sure. But it'd be her name that got the sullying if he didn't turn up alive somewhere.

The sand dragon roared again before it's mouth slackened, it's footing became unstable before it finally smashed into the ground, tonnes of flesh, sinew and scales smashed into the sand and with a gurgle it twitched in death throes.

Covered in blood not his own, the young prince stood, his arms straining as they wrenched the cleaver from the Sand Dragon's head, a spurt of blood covering him some more. He leapt down and looked across to Farahind. “You ok?” was all he managed before the Dragon roared again, and made a single swipe as the young price span around in shock. He flew backwards at least twenty feet before hitting the sand and a small rock, the gash to his chest bled profusely.

The Field of Dreams, 10 years later

Henry Hykar II sat bolt upright in his bed, sweat pouring from his body as he gasped suddenly. His hand came up to rub his deep, almost maroon hair before the same hand traced it's way down to the right hand side of his chest to run a finger along the long scar that adorned his slightly toned, but not perfect, torso. His eyes closing as he traced along it and sighing. His head turned to look at the empty half of the bed with a quirk of a smile. Not long now.

He stood, allowing the cool breeze from the open French windows caress his naked flesh as he took a deep breathe of the rose-like scent that permeated the air here, despite the fact there were few rose bushes. It was an odd problem here in the Field of Dreams, including lucid or highly tactile dreams. Occassionally, when somebody was under stress it brought back painful memories in startling clarity. He tugged gently on his hair and blinked. Something in the air, in his mind didn't feel right. There was the problem with Akuma looming on the horizon and Billy's government had left things alone, despite the deterioration between the Church there and the state itself that wanted independence despite it's good representation record. On top of this there was an event to organize in the Field of Dreams in the not-too-distant future as well as the state visit to the Commonwealth to go on without just running off with Farahind for a few days.

No wonder his dreams had been dragging through his past. With a tug on his short, neat beard he looked up at the stars above and yawned. His eyes gazed on Lake Theo and froze. He then blinked his eyes out, thinking he was tired. He thought he had seen... never mind.

He turned and headed back to the bed, making sure to step carefully over the enormous Navarrian Pit Hound that slept soundly at the side of his bed, it's chest rising and falling softly as it twitched it's nose, it's pinkish hued fur shaking slightly as it's large legs twitched slightly, and it's maw snapped lightly, or as lightly as it could for such a large dog. Getting back into the bed he yawned and laid back his hands rubbing his face briefly before he fell asleep again.

[The Ctan]

The Corrodine Islands were widely known as a prosperous tourist trap, deliberately and systematically made over from their natural state into something entirely different. The main island was a nest of necron devices and buildings, some obvious in their function, sizable portals to other worlds, or distant vessels, depending on the time. It was like an urban, decadent, slice of Duat brought to Earth. It was all a front. Like most examples of C'tani workmanship, the islands were covered by summoning cores, devices that altered space and time to permit instantaneous travel between places, to one who knew the ways. Beyond being useful - and something of a tourist draw in themselves, allowing one to travel far across the Earth to any number of locations without difficulty.

If one happened to be inside one of the more industrial, featureless buildings, lacking anything even resembling a door, not quite a bunker, but part of the many complexes of curious technology that clustered around the highlands of the islands, one could find a curiously un-necron symbol, a weath, festive, by human standards adorning its walls and interior doorways. Were one very well versed in C'tani symbols, one would recognise this as the symbol of a vaguely paramilitary organisation known as the Venturers, its symbols and name derived from pre-Menelmacari Númenórean culture.

The official owner of the Corrodine Islands was Marchioness (a translated equivalent of her necrontyr honour-title) Asaid Virenus, a woman of some influence, also a member of the group who served as proxies of the C'tani head of state, the 'Office of the Eleanaran' - a remarkably dull name that echoed their remarkably dull ceremonial duties. It was from just such a dull occasion that she had come to the islands for the first time in many years, elaborately bedecked in the silvery formal robes of the necrontyr.

These were descended from reflective metallic garments with layers of radiation resistant material inside them. Indeed, her own were over a hundred million years old, made of the most resistant materials available at the time, and exhumed by archaeologists on Naogeddon, their original owners long dead and confined to the great tombs of the necrontyr, they had been restored and re-made, its outer layers a mixture of aluminium and bronze composite-materials. The outfit, despite being plain, by some people's tastes, was worth millions of credits, possibly the most expensive garments anywhere, and certainly the most expensive in the necrontyr empire, their antiquity making them rare and extremely valuable.

There was normally no one in the facility barring its unintelligent systems.

Asaid didn't like many foreigners, and Freestians were no exception, though they were far from her least favourite - that had to be the Allaneans; but then, she'd once killed three thousand of their congressmen simultaneously, by poisoning their chairs, so she had fond memories of that too. She was not a nice person, or so she would say, she carried around great resentment of certain groups. Once, she had been at the bottom of one of the worst societies imaginable, or near to it, anyway. She had no love for those that didn't act to change their world for the better.

The Freestian government had earned her personal, as well as professional, enmity when they had begun allowing passage of slaves through their ports: she'd been sent on a mission to do something about that, and had secured an agreement - with considerable enjoyment in the process - to have appropriate information passed on to her friends. Rationally, this was useful, but she couldn't help but sneer at the Freestian people for their lack of backbone in opposing that policy - they had no way to know how much of the slave-traffic through Navvare and places like it was intercepted, and still accepted it.

She took a pin, a green laurel like that which adorned the featureless panel before her, and placed it on the metal, which deformed under it, immensely elaborate encryption that matched the latest military codes of the necrontyr.

"Recognised. Great-Captain Asaid Virenius, Marchioness, Order of the Elenaran. Unique Biological Scan Confirms. Welcome to Corrodine Monitoring Station One."

Normally, a genetic and bone-profile scan would be adequate - bone profile being an identification scan of an individual to identify ideosycracies in their skeletal growth, and so determine that they were not clones. In Asaid's case, however, elaborate chemical blood tests were required.

The whole panel changed, flowing and running like liquid into an elaborate information display console. The default image was of the vast Freestian Commonwealth and the sea around it, its enormous main island and its tributaries. A sleek, ribbed, alien looking chair appeared, faintly skeletal, designed after her own preferences in the baroque. She sat, placing her hands on the panel before her.

Information began to appear, accessed at speed, flowing over the screen.

She'd seen the top level government predictions, too, but with the information collected by the Ventuerers, it gave an interesting perspective. Abha's people had been more stridently in favour of policies that she favoured. But that didn't make the growing issues of government an open and shut case for her. She had met Farahind, a confident woman, and not terribly immoral, in herself. But there were issues.

The Midlonians. The C'tan government thought little of them.

The Venturers thought less.

Far too organised and central to act against with present resources, alas. Even the Venturers, with their substantial resources and clandestine backers, were not unlimited in their power. But if the Free Cities wanted to contain the influence of the Midlonian crypto-slavers, well, that was a laudable goal. Too soon to judge on that matter, of course. Asaid had not pulled herself from the sad cesspool of her birth to her current position by being incautious. It would nonetheless be beneficial for the anti-Midlonian faction to win the next elections.

[The Freethinkers]

How strong a man can be, when what he lives for is something other than himself.

Clodius leaned his head back, his muscular neck straining, peering at the giant jewel of the Light of Navarre. It hung, hundreds of metres above his head, shining a bright light across the gothic hall that stood within the Spire of Navarrok. Light reflected from the morning sun outside across the interior, cascading against the myriad of shadows from statues and gargoyles that lined the decorated interior.

He was alone, sat crossed legged in the centre of the dais that occupied the centre of the hall. His body was still, trembling slightly as the building’s natural ventilation, despite its size, allowed a gentle breeze to floor. He didn’t sweat; his body did not have that mammalian advantage, or insulating hair, nor even technically full control of his own body temperature. That said, the biological advantages nature had given him weren’t exactly lacking either.

The vampire closed his eyes and stopped breathing, as such, concentrating on making his longs flow and absorb as much oxygen from the air as possible. A human might take in twenty or thirty percent of the oxygen content in a single breathe, a vampire had to push this to eighty or ninety percent just to function. For actually combat or other straining exercise, Clodius and his soldier ilk could push that figure up to ninety-nine percent. Of course, this buggered up mouth to mouth respiration from time to time, but such was the price…he breathed again.

He was meditating. Sleep wasn’t a strict necessity for him, but he found these relaxed states a good way to contemplate decisions. Give the humans credit for something, though his control of the various chemical that coursed through his body gave him certain abilities to truly fine tune and enhance his thought processes.

Clodius had been sparring that day. The three challengers for Sempero’s vacant office, none true replacements he had found to his disappointment, though there was a reason, for all his fecklessness, that Sempero had retained his position despite his youth for so long. The latent confidence was not apparent in his predecessors, at least not in the same quantity, and their deficit was not in skill or even determination but in the simple bond that he and Sempero had been able to forge from the get-go. Of course, Clodius had vowed that if the next candidate had been as cheeky a fucker Semp had been, he would have caved their heads in, so he smirked slightly as he wondered if he only had himself to blame.

Footsteps. Lightweight, human or light end ghoul, not fully rhythmic, not military then, smell is, female, urban, no arousal, no real exertion. His senses did their work as the footsteps drew near. Tall, human gait, microscopic changes in air pressure, a dress, body heat, low cut or revealing, nice shampoo, other scents, must take care of herself….

“Do you ever actually put any clothes on?”

Oh for fuck’s sake. He didn’t catch the voice at first, and he didn’t even bother acknowledging the question. He let out a sigh, timed to ensure there was no real connection to the interruption, letting the sound vibrate the air and for his relaxing body to send a tremble through the floor. The rules governing vampire interactions with humans had embedded them with a lot of body and language tricks, little bouts of controlled power that demonstrated in subtle and not-so-subtle ways the raw strength and brutality a vampire could unleash without having to physically show it.

Most people got the message, thankfully, and the low murmuring, the way even the hardest marble seemed to tremble at the lightest effort on his part, was now merely a unconscious habit. The act still had its desired effect though, as a bated ‘oooh’ hung on the air in its wake.

“Yes.” He finally deigned to reply, without emoting his annoyance. His eyes remained closed. “However, in private I choose to be without the hang-ups of lesser beings.”

“I just think you like showing off.” Ah, yes. Amris.

“That is an interesting supposition.” A pause. “It does however rely on two telling assumptions. One is that we are in public,” an awkward sound came from the intruder, “Which is false, and believing otherwise indicates a horrible lack of understanding of our culture. Which would be a deep insult, especially for a Freestian who I would assume now wishes to converse with me.” He turned, eyes still closed, to where his other senses told him she was standing. He dipped his head in an annoyed gesture, still unseeing, letting her wonder. “On the other hand,” he rose slightly, to a kneeling position, the tiniest prick of heat gave away her blush. “The statement also implies, in its integrity, that I have something to show off in my physical form.”

He opened his eyes finally. Abha stood, almost timid. Smaller and weaker than Farahind and without the military familiarity with the giant synapsids, even in humanform, Amris’ expression was genuinely faltering, apologetic even.

“I apologise Clodius, and, I am sorry for my comments for the other day.” Clodius said nothing, merely locking eyes to test her sincerity. “And, thanks…for intervening.”

“Wouldn’t have looked good for either you or her.” He finally let her look away. “Your thanks and your apology are noted.” He paused again, raising an eyebrow. “Is that..it?”

“It would be enough,” Abha said simply, letting her hair slide, relaxing her pose slightly. Alone in the giant hall she cut a remarkable figure, all things considered. Both their voices echoed up to heaven. “But, if I may speak further.” She bit her lip, “with your leave, lord?”

“Go on.” He softly commanded.

“Lord Clodius, I need to ask you about Sarah. Not for gossip, but as a genuinely concerned citizen.” The vampire raised a hand.

“You sure you wish to have this conversation?” The sentence seemed to apply as much to him as to her. “Concerned citizen sounds remarkably close to gossipy idiot for my liking, Abha…” She appeared genuinely hurt. “Sarah is a confidant of mine, and I have no wish to quarrel with her or break my friendship.”

“I am not asking you to.” Abha said, honestly was perhaps the only real trait that defined her tone. “I am a patriot, Clodius, and I am worried about her links…”

“And I am a soldier, and common across the warriors of all species I value action above words. She choose him before her ascension to have him as her lover, and whether through her strength or his honour her public and private lives have remained admirably separate.”

“Don’t tell me it doesn’t matter to you. You trust the Midlonians as much as I do.” Abha said, firmly. “And I don’t mean their little episode of international relations. Its this whole sucking the Midlonian teet. Navarre is closer to Swad than it is to any Freet city, the whole place is…I feel a foreigner here, and all the people I represent Clodius. I get more hassle, the ghouls get more hassle than the average Midget who’s overstayed their welcome!” She looked down, steadily.

“You might want to stop with the ethnic slurs there…”

“Clo.” Her turn to sound commanding. “I am sick to death of being given shit by people who having nothing in common with true Freestians.”

“True Freestians. A country built on immigration and adoption of cultures and ideas and you speak as if there’s some exclusivity…”

“But in all that, honest, hardworking, genuinely trustworthy. I’ve been told…” Oh hello. “I’ve been told that a lost contract, several in fact, losses that caused the closure of several entire factories and yards were rigged. Not by the firms, not even by foreign agitators, but by my own government.” Abha finally said.

“So there’s corruption…”

“Corruption happens, but I do not sit idly by whilst the people I represent, the people I fight for, the values I promised to defend, this…” She revealed a few sheets of paper, documentation for her claims Clodius would later discover, though he guessed reasonably accurately now. “This is a symptom of a disease, when brother cannot recognise brother…”

“Not true Freestians…” Clo repeated back to her. The rant stopped in a heartbeat.

“Point.” Abha conceded. “I mean. I love Sarah, I love all of them, I know she is smart and patriotic and deep down a good person but…” She looked down. “This isn’t the country our forefathers fought for. We didn’t swap one set of rulers twenty thousand miles away for another set a few thousand closer. The men, the movers and shakers and the people that matter, still the same centralising, bureaucratic, weak chinned, upper class snobs they always were.” Clodius did have some sympathy with the sentiment. Then he realised…

“That was the rally call in the Aftermath, I remember. That was a horrific time.” Clodius suddenly had the vision of bloodied sand in front of him. Not all wars had been fought with foreigners.

“The “secession” was not secession, Clodius. It was an attempt to finally win what we had fought for.”

“You say we like you were there Abha. I was. The war with Midlonia had taken a lot out of the country…”

“Yes, the sacrifice, and for what?” Abha looked up again, locking eyes with the taller vampire, who finally stood up so he was peering down on her, using his physical might to suddenly raise the tension of the conversation and establish his control over it. “And I know, it was horrific, and we were weak and needed to be strong. I don’t want some daft survivalist fantasy Clodius, I just want Freestians to respect other Freestians, for the sake of the Commonwealth. We endured, we fought, we bleed, …Navarre, its people just rolled over time and again but we,” for the first time Abha used the word to describe both herself and Clodius and their peoples, so to speak. “We stood and won the day. And we didn’t do it to be treated like…like the forgotten in our own country.”

“It’s a pitiful plea, Abha.”

“Not for much longer. You’ve heard of my efforts, no?”

“The Free Cities, yes. I dare say again this won’t be good.” Clodius said, simply.

“What do you have against being free, Lord?”

“Nothing. But I wonder if its freedom you are fighting for. Makes you sound hollow like some crack snuffing Allanean.” Abha looked genuinely hurt.

“Fine. You’re right, I guess, it’s a hollow ideal. Shame about the blood that got spilt to defend it.”

“Don’t give me lectures on sacrifice, Abha, I know sacrifice, and I know the price I still pay. Your history, your myths are built of the things, the battles, and the wars I partook in. I was there, at the secession you speak fondly off and I help put it down, as you well know. And I also know you want me to say I regret it, but I do not. Abha.” A short sigh. “I admire your courage and your intent. But this is not a war. And though you wave the flag and though you sing their songs you are not one of them, you are not some brave, hopelessly outnumbered soldier fighting against injustice. You’re a cog, in a political machine, annoyed that not everything goes your way and wrapping yourself in the romanticism of the past to try and counter this.” Clodius leaned back slightly, a gesture of reconciliation. “You have legitimate concerns. Raise them, talk through them, and you will get your voice listened to.”

“You have far too much respect for humanity and its ability to reason.” Abha responded, clutching her papers tightfistedly.

“Maybe. Would be nice to have my hopes realised for a change. I am not against you and seeking justice. But I am stopping out of this growing regional mess, and that is all it is,” a hard glance from Abha’s eyes, “and so are my people.” The vampire said formally, ending the discussion in real terms.

“All it takes is indifference.” Clodius tipped his head at Abha’s parting shot. “But thank you for allowing me an audience.” She bowed, Clodius returned the gesture, though not dipping as far as she did.

“Don’t mention it.”

[The Ctan]

The Imperial Necrontyr Ship Telissat towered over Benarbor. On either side of the landed ship, great city expanded hundreds of miles in both directions. The vessel had, in landing, slightly altered the bottom of the river, having carefully chosen an area where no tunnels crossed, and been extremely careful in ‘landing’ – Necrontyr ships didn’t float, they were far too dense, but this one seemed to rest high in the water.

The sides of its curving, crescent shaped hull touched the harbours nearby, far smaller than those in the capital, and utterly dwarfed by the ship next to it. On the vast expanse of its upper surfaces, tourists in a variety of costumes could be seen. Every part of the metal was interesting, to some degree, sleek surfaces seemed to respond to being looked at, eldrich necrontyr inscriptions in gold upon its dark green surface appeared.

On looking at these tourists an observer would perhaps think that the ship was somewhere selling a lot of four-centimeter models of itself. These were in fact, several hundred of the lesser remove avatars of the ship, the equivalent of ‘formal dress’ for starships was to prefer such models in a 1:100,000 scale. This was somewhat confusing unless one could identify their individual markings, but in this case, they were all of the same ships, hovering about and happily answering questions.

Through the sensor-battery of drone #182, Telissat watched a group on a tour of it doing something bafflingly new. The center of the Arnstoan Rhien class ship was a massive stepped pyramid a kilometer high, seemingly made out of solid gold. The deep inscriptions in it, in neat horizontal rows, had apparently inspired one group of its guests to use them as handholds. They’d been on the observation platform at the very top, to start climbing down the sides. They’d gotten onto the last of these almost sheer cliffs so far. It had been worried a little, and had one of its teleporters aligned on the trio of lunatics as they climbed downward, but was willing to let them continue downwards, having assigned one-eight-two to follow them.

One of them, whom via conversation it had put a name to as ‘Samantha Taylor’ had reached the bottom, surrounded by an applauding crowd. She beckoned one-eight-two over, and Telissat had it buzz over.

“Don’t suppose you got any pictures of that?” the ghoul (the ship estimated one drake direct ancestor, four generations back) asked, slightly flustered.

“I can do that. Full recording, too if you like,” the ship said, it hadn’t actually said they couldn’t climb it, and they had provided some entertainment.

“Please. But right now,” she said, stopping to drink.

“Yes?”

“Any chance I can get up there?” It didn’t need to look where she was pointing, it knew its dorsal surface like, well its back. She was indicating a pair of even taller, sheer vanes, hundreds of meters across, and almost a mile high from the rear of the ship.

“If you like,” Telissat said, It rather hoped she’d fall off, just for being so damn confident. Still, if she could manage not to, it would be impressed… “You will probably need oxygen,” it added, “I shall see to that.” Next time it had one of the drakes on board, it would try and cajole them into gliding off there, it decided.

__ __ __

In the same instant, drone #493 was deep below the waterline, in the seemingly endless labyrinth of its troop storage chambers. By far the most unnerving part of the ship, this was one of the few opportunities to see Necrons up close for anyone outside the C’tan. The modern form of the necron soldier was far different from the design that most people imagined.

Each was a sleek shape, the plates of its body seeming to echo human musculature to a degree, heads making each stand a little less than seven feet in height. All seemed, curiously, frozen into blocks of iron. The tour guide, one of those same Necrons, named Aiseranaida, not though he looked it, called the group to a halt.

“Normally, a necron is activated by the ship when required. We don’t actually,” he said, “exist in any one particular form like this,” he pointed at the nearest of the dormant Necrons, “but rather as a distant intelligence. Each unit has some programming that allows it to undertake basic actions on its own, such as fighting, patrolling, and so on. With the exceptions of Necron Lords, most of us control a number of these simultaneously.”

One of the children in the group stepped forward, “How weird is that?”

The necron had prepared an answer, that question was a very common one, “It takes some getting used to. At first, it’s a little like playing a computer game, until you really get the hang of ‘being’ in different bodies at the same time. Now, I say normally, because of course, there are other ways.”

The sleek alcoves in which the Necrons were housed were between featureless pillars of metal, but the interior of each glowed lightly with a green glow. Here there in the long corridor, dividing between recumbent groups of twenty stasis alcoves, pure white light was shed from slim strips as wide as one’s thumb, the light reflecting off the metal to make dim, eerie lighting that lit the scene. One of the alcoves was empty, both of its necron and the ‘iron’ in which it was frozen.

“Would someone care to try and touch one?” Aiseranaida said.

One of the older of the tour group hesitantly reached out, pressing his hand out, stopped by an invisible force. The light from inside the chamber changed hue slightly, becoming more active.

“Keep going.”

The resistance vanished, and the human’s hand rested against the sleek metal of the Necron’s chest.

He snatched it back a moment later, drawing in breath with a hiss. “Bloody freezing,” he said.

Despite the cold, the ‘iron’ began to run, not glowing, but shimmering lightly, pulling away from the wall of the stasis chamber, revealing a smooth wall behind it, as the metal flowed onto the skeleton, glistening in metallic pools that seemed to fill out the spaces. It formed layers over the body of the necron, as its eyes began to glow with emerald light, they were filled in, taking the appearance of silver-threaded irises and otherwise human eyes.

Its fingers flexed as metal flowed onto them, and onto an object that they gripped from it, which resolved itself into the ominously crackling form of a gauss flayer, which it moved, bringing across its chest. For a moment, it seemed to have an Adonis-like figure, nude and silvery; as its flesh appeared, so did its clothes, offering only a tantalizingly brief glance of such a figure, before it came to become an absolutely identical – but armed – duplicate of Aiseranaida.

“Of course,” it said, “under normal circumstances, I’d have…” it – he – glanced at one of the more attractive ladies in the group, “ravaged the lot of you for tampering with such mechanisms.”

Telissat inwardly sighed at the flirtatiousness.

__ __ __

The room itself was built to hold upward of twenty people in comfortable seating, the displays seemed surprisingly normal, but as one looked at them, one would notice a few things. Firstly they were three-dimensional. They somehow created depth on a flat surface, almost as though they were windows of some kind. The room itself was surprisingly colourful, the walls decorated in relief sculptures in full colour, of a necron ship with an unusual design, in combat, and of ground battles, where what seemed to be ‘space marines’ like the Dawn Paragons were cut apart or shot by lifelike Necrons. These marines, though, were in most unprofessional looking hues.

The ship needed no drones here to communicate with the important looking woman guest. This was Elector Abha Amris, Public Representative of Benarbor. “This bridge,” it said, its form here appearing as holographic, translucent human male, dark haired and lightly bearded, “is of course, mostly for the sake of tradition, and not all ships bother with one. In theory, it would serve as main control point should I be unconscious for whatever reason, but throughout our history this has not happened on a ship such as myself,” this was not quite true, it had happened, but such events were classified, and they had been on older models anyway. “but while I’m active, I won’t be doing anything silly, so feel free to play with the controls,” he added, “All this is in simulation mode, anyway. I’ll talk you through it,” the hologram said, stepping up to a captain’s chair, on this vessel, an elaborate golden throne without visible instruments or controls.

Telissat half expected her to use that simulator to take off and flatten Navarre, if the rumours were true. It had chosen this city some time ago, and had been very interested in their grievances and problems since then.

It wouldn’t blame her.

[The Ctan]

Abha nodded, stepping up to the edge of the chair, running one delicate hand along it. Dressed in the archetypal Freestian summer clothing, lightweight, almost translucent 'robes' that was really more of a veil-like dress over a darker chemise, both a pale blue colour, she seemed to simmer far more than her holographic guide as she looked the seat over. "I don't see where...my hands should go." She said

He smiled, slightly, stepping out to beside it, "Simply sit down, and you'll see," he said, nodding at the russet-padded chair before her, a few screens on other instruments switching on, as if responding to her approach

"Ooooh." The sound seemed to hang in the air as she lowered herself into the throne, twisting slightly in the seat as she freed the clothing beneath her. Abha looked up as she rested back, still unsure of her posture, suddenly feeling quite small.

Unsurprisingly, it was built on a rather bigger scale than for her, though not quite designed for necrons themselves, in this instance. It was nonetheless, quite comfortable, shifting and conforming to her uncertain pose. "Now, you want to switch it to single user mode, so," his intangible finger pointed at one of a slim row of illuminated buttons on the right armrest, "That one, then that one," he said, pointing at one a little way below.

"Press buttons!" Abha said gleefully. "How… quaint... for something like this. Okay." She did as commanded, taking the opportunity as well to wiggle a bit more into the seat. "Okay. This is a simulation right? I'm not going to obliterate everything for twenty miles around or anything like that?" She said it only half jokingly.

"You are not," he said.

Angular parts of its filigree on the arms shifted and changed, parts of it sliding over the other in front of her, the previous small controls folding down, disappearing under it. In front of her, a small panel appeared, seeming to come from innumerable small interlocking parts. On its golden surface, a variety of small displays and instruments appeared. The room around her disappeared into absolute darkness, and several floating holographic images, two-dimensional, displayed images of the craft itself, and the harbor outside.

"Okay. Not so quaint." Abha suddenly seemed excited, a brilliant smile spreading across her face. "I like this. Very...alien, almost." She arched her fingers and stopped. "Erm...how do you make it...go?"

"You’ll see. Besides, where would be the point of giving you a neural interface? There’s no challenge in that. What you need to do now," he said, "is, power up the engines, a little involved, but we’ll skip that. This control," he said, pointing her hand at a sleek, curiously jointed ‘stick’ not unlike an aircraft’s, textured in some kind of black rubber, with several glowing buttons, and some kind of throttle control built in, "is pitch, yaw and roll. While you can move on any axis, it’s substantially simpler to turn using this; left and right yaw the ship, which is to say, turn it left and right. pushing it forwards and back controls the pitch, which raises or lowers the nose, while squeezing and twisting the handgrip controls the roll," he gestured for that one, "So for other movements, you should be somewhat delicate."

Abha took the column in her fingers, gripping it tightly and enjoying the texture and she teased the controls, causing the ship, or a simulation, to tilt and roll slowly on every axis, her eyes watching her hand's delicate gestures as she put touch to sight to reaction.

"Okay, I'm getting this. Take me somewhere."

On the main screen, the environment outside swerved dizzyingly, for a moment going to a light-enhanced view of the river-bottom being raked by the ship’s prow, followed by it chewing up a good bit of the docks by the side. It didn’t feel as though they were moving, but that could be deceptive. It was a rather convincing display of massive destruction.

"All simulated," he said reassuringly. "This, controls forward and rear thrust," he said, gesturing to a sleek sliding control, in a small line with necrontyr text by its side. He walked around behind her to the other side, "of course, the actual engines are reactionless, so this is rather simplified. And the reserve engines have all sorts of vectoring techniques that I won’t show you just now. Forward makes it go forwards, while pulling it back reverses the thrust.

"Just point up into the sky and go."

Abha's eyes lit up. "Okay. Lets do this!" The glee was apparent in her voice as she thrust her body forward. She flung the controls forward, shooting the craft through the Northern half of the city, the vast urban expanse stretching from horizon to horizon soon disappearing into irrigated fields and then into golden shrublands as the vessel surged forward.

"This is....wow."

The Green Valley, though they're heading up into the Cursed Mountains

The ship’s avatar blinked back astonishment. After a few moments the ground began to fall away. "I think you just flattened half of the northern coast there," he said, "The idea is to go over the city, not through it," he added chidingly. A little amused, nonetheless. It hadn’t been quite what he’d been expecting.

"Probably not. It is just a simulation." She gave him a cheeky smile, and started experimenting with the pitch and roll at speed, sweeping the huge vessel around the lower mountains of the Cursed range, the scenery changing, the evidence of civilization slowly declining, highways becoming roads, roads becoming dirt tracks, farms turning into ranches.

"I wanna take you somewhere..." She said as the controls became more instinctual.

He walked out of view for a moment, into the darkness, and re-appeared, seeming fully physical, pushing an almost irrelevant button which made another screen appear, showing the view directly underneath, as those roads were torn up by hurricane speed winds forming under the ship. "Go ahead," he said.
"Fancied a change of clothing?" Abha eyed him for a moment, before swinging the craft around towards the northwest. "The Cursed Mountains. A vampiric name, never really saw the origin of it." The peaks were close now, towering grey and purple pinnacles that soared miles above them as the vessel, for all its majesty, dipped beneath the crest of Aurora.

"That mountain range protects the Green Valley, a shield for most of the Freestian population."

"I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you," he said, resting an arm on the top of the throne and watching "Most?" he asked, seeking out population statistics as he said it.

"I've always wondered that." Abha suddenly seemed contemplative. "Many mysteries are said to reside in the peaks. Over half of them are unnamed and untravelled." She turned back to him, slowly the ship as it hovered over a famous spot. "And yes, population of ten billion, five of those reside, excluding the billion or so of Benarbour, in that place. Of course its not a true valley..."

"Go on," he said, sounding curious, more to see how this would mesh with her political views than needing a lesson on the geography.

Abha paused for a moment. "Navarrians often forget" she said offhandedly, "and few outsiders realize, but demographically that green and pleasant land is the...heart of the Commonwealth."

"I would think, that much like a space marine," the walls came into view again for a moment, "it has two hearts," he said.

"And Benarbour is the capital of the region. Course...the average rockhopper probably doesn't even know we exist. Probably thinks its all mud huts and goat sacrifices or something."

"Rockhopper?" the human-seeming avatar asked, sounding interested.

"Navarrian. Comes from the Navarok fortress, the 'Rock'. Nothing deeper but they hate the name." A pause. "Navarre has its charms. It just has this habit, as a city and shared by its people, that it is the only place of any note in this country." She looked down at a structure below, several snaking silver lines that glinted in the sun. "See those? That’s the barrier, moats, electric fences, chain link, please stop showing it flying all over the place." She smiled again at him, cocking an eyebrow. The ship was handsome, cheeky sod as he was. "Beyond here is the marches, the Outback, at least where its desert and steppe, the forests and mountains as well." She breathed in. "That city is very far away, in many respects."

He de-activated the second screen, "By my standards, it's a stone's throw," he said.

"I know." She sighed. "But I'm human. So are the people who built this country." She peered down, some archaic ruins spread out below in giant circular patterns, blackened as though superheated and arrange like the original structure had been torn apart. "And for a long while, we were on our own, all the cities were."
"Do you feel that they deliberately mistreat you?" the ship's avatar asked, leaning on the back of the elaborate command chair and watching the outback rush by in simulation, "or that they are merely self-involved?"

"Its...not that simple." The phrase was anti-climatic. "Perhaps the latter more than the former. But lets go north....is the simulation coming from real time data?" She asked, a hint of curiosity breaking through.

"Among other things," he said, resting a hand on hers and making a course change that'd set them toward currently invisible Navarre. "It's derived from standing records of traffic patterns, with, in some places, satellite data."

"Somewhere first," Abha said. softly, her fingers trembling slightly at the touch. "I want to show you what sort of relationship it is."

"First though, we need to be able to just watch rather than interrupting."

"As you wish," he said, taking his hand off hers, bringing up a map screen displaying the country and their 'current position' over it. "Feel free to navigate as you please, then," he said.

Abha raised her hand, her eyes watching the display intently. Trying to pick out features on any map of the Commonwealth was hard. But she thought she saw, based somewhat on memory and on intuition, what she was looking for. She aimed for a spot two thousand miles to the north, into the middle of the Great Southern Desert.

"So, what precisely do you wish me to see?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically, as he already had a good idea where they were going simply by extrapolating their trajectory. The ship's mind was intrigued, nonetheless, by what she had to say.

"To understand the position of Navarre, you do have to bear in mind that its mindset goes back to the founding of the country. Navarre was, and is the capital, under the Midlonians and now. Our gripe is that the rest of us are still in servitude, just our lords are a little closer."

"We are going," she said, "to one of the numerous fleeting battlefields that comprise this country."

"I see," he said, "You realize of course that, beyond the literal, that metaphor is not entirely true; the change in status is very distinct..." he paused, "Machine minds love to nit-pick..."

"You say that. The average GDP per capita outside of Navarre is about two-thirds of that of the rest of the country. Now, you do have urban wealth concentration and the government central institutions there, but it represents rather keenly the dependency the city forces on the rest of us. Now, we receive funds, but..."

They had arrived. Below them the desert sat outstretched, from one horizon to the other, sparse steppe vegetation and the rolling dunes the only significant features visible.
"But they're designed, to keep us in our position. The infrastructure spending, the tax laws, the loopholes, government contracting, some does come our way but ultimately its designed to reinforce something."

"And the status under Midlonia was no less fair than that?" he asked, "I doubt that. I could examine the relevant information if you wish. But no matter; What's so special about this barren place?"

"This place, though you would have to look deep, which I imagine you can do..." Abha looked up, determination suddenly set across her features. "Is the most important historical battlefield in the Commonwealth. This is where Navarre's ability to dictate its relationship was cemented through betrayal."

In actuality, there were severe limits to what sensors it could employ while sitting in Benarbour, without dispatching some kind of relay device, which it didn't care to, "How long ago was this?" the ship asked; there were other ways to see things past, that it might consider instead, should it find it interesting enough.

"How much do you know about, and I guess this is rhetorical as I imagine the answer is 'as much as I wish', about our struggle for independence from Midlonia?" She breathed out, her chest heaving slightly as something stirred in her memories. "The war for independence was a bloody affair, not long I imagine by your standards but it claimed more than a few lives. The agreement the six great cities forged was simple, they would fight together, end the Greater Kingdom's tyranny and establish the Commonwealth, a league of free city states, all equal, all trading and protecting each other in a confederation."

"Well, and I say this is not an unbiased opinion but given every textbook happily paints the aftermath as little more than growing pains and establishing order, well, I'm sure you'll understand. This noble dream died on the tip of Navarre's bayonets."

"I know only what the historical record says, and that is written by the victors; of course, that record is a little more extensive for me in some ways. It's always worth hearing people's perspectives on things like this. Or you can end up totally indifferent," he said, "continue."

"So, the Midlonians are gone. The cities find themselves on their own, exhausted, near bankrupt, suddenly lacking a common enemy we began to suddenly start raising issue with one another. The rough borders, lines in the sand in the most literal manner, suddenly meant little."

"After all, how do you split up territory? Some small parcels of land contain more use than any vast desert, and why should all of the cities get the same when some sacrificed more than others."

"How would you do it?" the ship asked, interested in precisely what she would say to that.
"But..." She was breathing more heavily now, and she removed an outer, shawl like layer of her dress and sat back with bare shoulders against the seat.


"Telissat, I don't know, but I guess no one would. Two men emerged, both with separate ideas."

The ship's avatar nodded silently. Silence spoke more than words sometimes, and in this respect, it made it think she was perhaps ignoring realities of the history in favour of ideology. Understandable, of course, but not always wise.

Abha breathed out slowly. Though long before she was born, a lifetime of fighting the consequences of these events had given them a personal edge. "One, Harold Adem, proposed the Free Cities league, adapting the wartime treaties and declaring the unincorporated areas as shared resource areas. It was a plan popular with five of the six city delegations."

"The other, a man by the name of Percival Barham, proposed something different, the creation of a new federal country with Navarre at its centre. He justified this by pointing out the weakness of many divided, especially with the Midlonians still staring us down and the country...well, still basically uninhabitable in many areas."

"And Navarre did not agree." The rather deep voice of the ship's avatar seemed to be stating a fact, rather than a guess.

"So in effect, you would say they conquered you?" the ship said.

"Oh, it gets better. Navarre, as you can imagine, wasn't in a position to take on all the other cities, and it seemed to accept that it had no other option but to go along with the confederation as proposed. However, the Midlonians complicated things. There's a small group of islands that are retained by the Midlonians, the last vestige of their empire. These were being used a staging point to maintain Midlonian pressure on the fledgling state."

"I am aware of them," he said, reaching down and lightly massaging her shoulders, "if you want to just hold position hit the third button on the top row to the right," he said.

"It was decided to invade them and remove the threat." Abha suddenly ooed at the touch, not realizing how tense she was. "Thanks." She turned and smiled back at him. "Soft touch for such a big guy."

Telissat's avatar laughed, "You'd be amazed just how delicate we can be when we wish to."

"I'm sure. But where was I?" Her soft olive skin seemed to glow in the surrounding light. She reclined from the fingers, suddenly lost for the briefest of moments, enjoying the attention. "Now, Midlonia had got it even worse than we had, economically after the war. The country had built itself up into a capital territory for an empire that no longer existed."

"So it made plans. It could regain some of its wealth and influence, and perhaps even reoccupy some of the country, and it relied upon the one city whose own fortunes had been linked most with our former rulers."

"Publically, the Navarrians supported the Free Cities, and agreed to supply ships and troops along with the rest of us. As the single biggest naval force, it's contribution was vital."

"Mmm," the machine's fingers caressed her upper back expertly, listening with interest, quite inhumanly good at this, resting his chin on the top of the chair and listening.

"They...simply didn't show. Our invasion force was destroyed, taking our best and most capable forces with it."

"Now, Navarre excused themselves with issues over communication, after all, back then I think there maybe two or three telegraph lines linking each city, and courier post usually got eaten. It was understandable but betrayal was suspected regardless."

"And so they...kindly..." She stopped and let out a soft moan. "You are very distracting you know." She didn't actually seem to mind though. "They sent troops to 'defend' the other cities from attack by the Midlonians. Of course, with armies sitting in their capital districts, suddenly Barham's views became much more popular."

He made a soft 'hum' noise of agreement, listening to the story, seeming entirely focussed on her though he was simultaneously talking to thousands of others. "I know I am, that's the objective," he said.

"Fair enough." She looked round at him again, peering up with aplomb. "Objective?"

"To distract you a little. I want your unpolished version! Pray continue."

"Right." Abha looked slightly disappointed. "Now, suddenly, things started looking like the whole situation was planned. The league couldn't function as such as the Navarrian's power became centralized. Delta and Portnova joined quickly, as did the Blank, that left us and Ademsea."

"Ademsea suddenly found its trade diminishing as Navarrian warships 'escorted' merchantmen away under the context of protecting them against Midlonian privateers and general piracy. They sent troops too, but the Adems didn't take too well to that and more than a few died before control was finally given over."

"Just out of curiosity, what did all the lesser cities have to say about this?" he asked.

"The smaller cities? Most at the time were either satellites of the bigger cities or otherwise sat as independents in the unincorporated areas."

Abha paused. "I guess you want to make a point about the big boys hypocritically shoving their weight around, but no. The Free Cities are...were city states, their territories operated as extant nations. People choose to live where they wished."

He pinched slightly, "Merely providing another perspective. And 'moving to live where you wish' is easier said than done in this kind of context."

"Perhaps. But it wasn't as if we were marching armies in. This was the age of settlement, after all, most people moved to push the edge of civilization ever onward."

"Being occupied by an army might be less dangerous, here," he said, resuming the massage.

"Not if you were safe before." And she was starting to feel...comfortable. "We were left standing alone. With the Midlonians pressing on one side and the Navarrian forces on the other. We resisted though. For three years."

"So, how did it resolve into the current situation?" he asked.

"We ran out of time. Navarre was now receiving support from the Midlonians and the other cities had folded up into the Commonwealth. We resisted, with arms, and one last battle, fought here."

"And we lost."

Abha looked up. "You won't see any markers down there..."

"Not worth commemorating, I take it?" he sounded more put out by this than anything else. The peculiar cultural imperatives of the necrontyr were in their created intelligence as much as themselves.

"Not to the victors." Abha leaned back into Telissat's hands, suddenly downcast.

"And to your people?" he asked.

"There are tributes in our city." She said simply. "Even some of our own would rather forget our failure, lest we hate ourselves and our countrymen."

"But people do remember."

"I take it that you are not one of those who think that way," he said.

"No." Abha turned and sat up, resting on her knees and facing Telissat. She rested a hand on top of his. "And the thing is, those people are becoming fewer. The inequalities from that day grow deeper, and people are learning more and more what happened."

"Or maybe just caring more about those inequalities."

"Its all intertwined. Navarre has taken our submissiveness for granted for far too long."

"And is it to be expected?" he asked.

"I guess so." Abha looked at Telissat. "I have tried to be nice about it. But with Mrs Midlonia in government whatever I do seems to set some sort of recrimination. We losing jobs, delegated authority, influence, even when we try to go the opposite direction."

"And so you want to get into government to arrest this slide? A noble cause."

"Yes. Its very hard and lonely sometimes though."

"Lonely? Do you not enjoy a great deal of popular support?"

Abha played her fingers against the rim of the seat. "The travelling kills it. The whole city representative thing is a good example. They can publicly say they allow us in on the decision making, but one person, isolated, stuck with their staff, all we do is watch their decision making."

"Isolated? How much time do you spend travelling?" Telissat asked.

"Probably...two days a week, three days in Navarre, alone, some hotel room."

"I could probably do something about that if you wish," he said, "a great deal of that."

"I wouldn't mind..." She smiled a warm smile, leaning on her hands with her elbows on the edge of the chair. "Oh. You mean the travelling..."

"What are you doing for the next few days?" the ship asked.

"Today was a day off, tomorrow I would fly back to Navarre." Abha answered with a raised eyebrow and a curious smile.

"How would you like to spend the next few days with me?"

"There's an offer. What would you want in exchange..." Abha managed to make the sentence seem both seductive and almost jovial at the same time, shifting her arm and running a finger up Telissat's arm. "See, I think you think I'm just like my national stereotype."

"I thought you might appreciate the rest," he said, with a slight smirk, "And you're not? It's a Freestian stereotype, not a Navarre one..."

"Very true. Okay, but first lets go crush Navarre into neutronium!" She said this giggling, turning to sit back in the seat. "I guess you'll be a spoilsport and only do it in a simulation."

"I can imagine very few scenarios where I would do that in real life," he said, watching her turn around.

"Just so long as there is a couple I can live in hope." Abha grinned. "Show me what you can do."

On the screens, the ship turned, heading in a loosely westward direction, picking up speed once more, faster than before, rising only before mountains, and lowering down almost at a level that touched the tips of hills.

"Ooooooh baby!" Abha giggled as the adrenaline rushed through her and she was pushed back in place by the artificial gravity.

By the time the ship reached Navarre, it was going at a substantial speed, so that even the hundreds of miles of city flicked by under it in a few seconds, flashes of light at almost invisible speed where it shot down some larger craft over the docks it might have collided with. Then it pulled up high through the atmosphere, turning in flight like a bird, slowing and holding its position as something that looked like an enormous funnel of clouds of sand and vapour swept after it, along its route, eclipsing a strip of it scores of miles wide. "Now, you wanted it crushed, yes?" he said, "We also do 'electrified' 'melted' 'boiled' and 'broiled' if you'd prefer."

"You sound as if you're enjoying yourself a little too much."

"Despite the public relations brief," an arc of lightning flickered out from somewhere at the side of the screen, blasting a mountain into a glowing, expanding dust cloud that began to interact with the wake-cyclone nearby, pulling the rock-vapour in, "I am a warship. We are born for warfare, subjugation and domination." He gave a slightly mischievous smirk, and repeated the last action a few times. "Even in simulation, it's satisfying. Especially with an audience, even of one."

"You seek domination in all things?"

"Quite so," he said, looking down at her, waiting for her to look back at the screen before beginning to target major dockyards with what seemed to be pencil slim lines of green light, that snapped across the docks, disintegrating millions of tonnes of freight instantly, "Are there any particular buildings you dislike?" he asked.

Abha looked around, sampling the destruction. "You know, it would be easy, with this much power to develop a megalomaniac complex." She paused. "I think, oh yes!"

"We're born with one, of sorts. As are all necrontyr, and other races raised in their culture. Fortunately for everyone, these days, it's blended with more virtuous traits like patience and tolerance."

"We'll see how justified that is, won't we?" Abha pointed to a singular, massive structure a little way. The Navarre House of Government, a giant (in the sense that if it could fly, it would dwarf the multimile necrontyr ship by a reasonable distance) neo-gothic structure, clad in marble, granite and gold leaf. Its two huge spires soared above, flags waving a good two kilometers aloft. "Its so tempting."

Another screen appeared, showing it in close up, as a stream of projectiles shot from the underside of the ship, slamming into the ground nearby.

"Say when," he said.

"When." Abha grinned. She was enjoying herself far too much.

The ground underneath the House of Government exploded, on some powerful explosives, for a moment, the whole structure did fly, before breaking up as it fell back into the column of nuclear fire beneath it.

Abha watched the scene in awed silence. Then, from somewhere, she felt an awful twinge. "No..."

"I'm sorry." She continued, after a pause. "I feel bad doing this."

It vanished, as did the other screens, returning the bridge to the way it had been before, and suddenly, it was silent.

"I expected you would," he said, not unkindly, "it's easy to hate people when they're distant, the reality of such things is immensely messy and terrible." Of course, he'd expected her to say something of that nature before that point.

"I don't hate it. I just want the best for us, that’s all." Abha suddenly felt a bit ashamed. "I am bad, aren't I?" She looked up at Telissat apologetically.

The avatar smiled, "Or, to continue my theme of giving a different perspective, you're good. You want what's best for the people who appointed you. It is your duty that you're doing."

"Maybe." She looked down. "Its just revenge feels good sometimes as well. You're right, I need to remember what I'm here to do."

"Of course revenge feels good. Revenge is good. It is a foundation of justice, and of social order," he said. "But remember your objective is to do what's best for your people, not simply punish those who've wronged them."

"I know." She looked up, smiling again, moving one hand to rest on Telissat. "I just hope I do keep that perspective."

The chair returned to normal, and he stepped in front of her, "Come with me," he said, with a slight smile, holding out a hand for her.

Abha looked curious for a moment. "That sounded like an order." She held her hand out, slowly, peering straight as his eyes as she did so.

He pulled her to her feet, "I felt an urge to test your national stereotype!" he said with a smirk.

"Oh, your poor, poor man." Abha returned the smirk. "Think you can handle that?" She placed her hands on her hips and looked up.

"I know I can," he said, and they vanished to another room, wide 'windows' on the walls looking out at part of the city of Benarbour, "can you handle the experience? I'm sure I can do all sorts of wonderful things in the next five minutes, according to that clock, at least..." he said, pointing out of the window.

He tilted his head to the side, "Give me until then, and we'll see how much of that stereotype I can get you to live up to..."

Abha looked out, bending forward invitingly on the pretext of looking out the window. "Five minutes? Hunny I could barely live up to a Kaeneian one in that time."

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, and outside, aircraft, vehicles, and people seemed to stop in the distance. "I promised a holiday," he said, "Provided you don't want to go out of this suite, I can cram, oh, three days, into the next five minutes..."

"Well, I guess you'll need the recovery time." Abha turned and strode up to him. "Your move." She said, resting her hands on his shoulders.

[The Freethinkers]

“Christ what a dump.” Gerald Clarkson, the head of Royal Security muttered under his breath as he straightened out his coat with a mutter.

“It has it's charm.” Replied a second figure cheerily as he donned his blue field cap and pulled his own jacket tight, quirking a single fang towards the tall human standing next to him the pale skinned figure with blonde hair tightened the white gloves he was wearing.

“Says the man who finds graveyards attractive.” Clarkson retorted.

Kristian barked a single laugh before looking at the tall dark haired man next to him and shook his head. “Because you don't appreciate the subtle beauties of sheer form and purpose.”

“No, he's right. It's a dump.” Came a third voice as it peered out the window.

Fort Tempest, impressive name, not so impressive locale. Well, in terms of size the area was not exactly lacking, and the beautiful grounds the base was set in suddenly compensated somewhat, but the plain modernist blocks had little charm or character compared to the norm of Freethinker architecture. In its effort to look inconspicuous, Tempest inadvertently looked as distinctly non-Freestian as was possible. Four square miles of greenery and rolling lawns provided a barrier to the hustle and bustle of Trenton around them. Hard to believe in this idylic seclusion that they were in the middle of one of the largest teeming metroplices on the planet.

Inside an airconditioned office, a mixed bag of people, various uniforms and insignias belying their allegience and service, hovered around a table. The glittering surface projected a basic three dimensional map of the central government district of Navarre, the giant House of government and the surrounding facilities and parks. Various icons flittered around it, denoting points in time for various events to occur and the positioning of security and support forces in the area.

“So, in brief. Landing strip, presentation of the 21st and 43rd Regiment, drive to the House of Government, speeches, drinks, banquet, and then the happy couple can go pretend they’re discussing policy. Any questions?” Chief Inspector Tanya Wells withdrew her hand, black hair flicking as she turned to face every one in the group, staring intently at all of them. “Our friends have any issues they wish to raise?”

“What provisions have been made against anti-magical protection?” Kristian said, tilting his head down a little and obscuring his brow as he peered at the 3D model of Navarre and poked it like an idle curiosity, the image distorting a little as he did so. “We're still getting problems from various nut boxes that like to find magical artifacts and we're wary they may try to attack the Commonwealth.”

"Spoke to the Syrens, got one accompanying and two on-standby Reavers", Aden Seralda, vampire, Sempero's heir, such as he was, close cut white hair on a tall, bulky frame, though still dwarfed by some present in his humanform. "I'm assuming your services are providing Hykar's close in support as well?"

“We're putting a few in and most of Clarkson's boys will have anti-magic bracelets and things on them also to stop them getting mulched.” Kristian said as he sniffed the 3D model a little and stood up. “Other than that, no questions from me.”

The third figure present simply pursed his lips a little and then sighed. “I personally dislike the fact there's so many bloody threats coming in this time.” The man said scratching his neck a little. “Normally we get some chatter and the usual nutjobs, this time though it seems every fucking group imaginable are issuing threats in every way possible from speeches to threatening emails and creepy phonecalls?”

"Well, yours or ours?"

“Well if you're smart enough not to listen to every simpering MoD broadcast you'd know the Military is fighting five separate bush wars, three civil disturbances and two hot colonial disturbances right now. We're reaching the point of 'bad fucking way' which means we have threats coming in from the Birchestese Marxists, the Odin's Cultists, the A.M.I. The Eskimos never mind the various groups in the Commonwealth.” Minister of Internal Security and the Midlonian Intelligence and Research Agency said as he scratched his roughly shaven chin again, his darkened hair blatantly dyed in an attempt to hold back the years.

“I think you'll find we're more than holding our own, thank you Frederick.” Clarkson snapped back irritably. “That's the problem with the phrase 'military intelligence and research' it's an oxymoron.”

“Lad, please!” Tanya gestured. She had the tone of an annoyed teacher. “We can remain flexible. Keep us updated as and when specific threats emerge. As per usual we’ll have standby teams and spot/shot squads on relevant buildings for general situations. We have four fighters on standby, fleet assets will be above as mentioned.”

She stared at the Midlonians again. “This needs to go smoothly. I assume something similar at your end, but we have a lot of prying political eyes wanting to make a major statement here. Your primary’s inability to keep his trousers on has created a whole slew of grudges that providing ammunition for agitators.”

“His majesty is permitted to pursue whatever relationships he wishes, and his relationship with Farahind goes a long way back.” Clarkson muttered back. “Not our fault she chose a political career after her time in the Corps.”

Awkward silence, and Tanya withdrew. Barham stepped forward with little aplomb. “Lets just not fuck this up, okay?”

---

Ten thousand miles away, a moan, a roll on bedsheets as the soft feminine figure awoke. Something clinked with a sharp metallic sound.

“Teli, you bastard.”

[Oyada]

Out of sight, and most probably out of mind, of the feuding Freestians beyond the shining core, there dwelt a planet named, with characteristic, cynical humour, Resurgam. From distant space, it looked surprisingly earthly; it was only when drew closer that one observed the preponderance of vast, reddish-yellow stains spreading, slowly and inexorably, across the continent that floated among its deep, dark green oceans. Like Earth’s long-vanished Pangaea, Resurgam’s single continent, Funtara, was sole inhabitant of the otherwise untrodden wastes; within it one found everything one might expect on any planet, with the single and notable exception of tundra. The centre of Funtara was a cold and bitter place indeed, yet no river lingered long enough among its cold and rocky heart to transform it, beyond wearing great, jagged grooves into the hard, mountains. Instead, slipping past steeply-sloped, smouldering cones of volcanoes, weaving between serrated summits, they bore themselves to the flatlands, leaving behind glimmering, icy peaks to flow through the rolling foothills, before plunging, faltering and ever-changing, into the vast desert reaches, extending for perhaps four thousand miles between the mountains and the Circular Sea; some of them had still not yet managed the feat, and disappeared into expanding lakes in the endless sands.

Nestling in a large patch of sandy, parched steppe, giving way in the west to a full-flown desert laced with great, glittering salt pans and bounded to the east by a ragged range of rough, young mountains, green-shrouded youths whose new eminence was dwarfed by the carved majesty of their forebears still further east, dwelt thirteen thousand people, spread into the unforgiving plain as they expanded untidily along the flanks of the mountains, pushed relentlessly into the lush verdance lining their feet, in the town called “Resurrection”. Resurrection was new; it was brash, it was energetic, determined and quite stupendously unattractive. From once-pristine wilderness jutted smoking chimneys and busy ribbons of rail and road, always extending their tendrils into the fabulous emptiness that surrounded them, fed and watered by the accommodating land and fleets of freighters that chugged gamely back and forth between the distant stars, stopping on their way to deliver the commodities that such a rough-and-ready place could not provide. Narrow, crowded streets lined with stone eminences, whose merit lay solely in suitability for their function, sat huddled beneath the watching residences of those sufficiently wealthy to afford their construction upon the cooling hillsides. Their inhabitants could sit and gaze out over an ever-growing organism, perhaps to spot (with the right instruments) construction crews who steadily pushed metalled road and snaking rail outward, along tiny dirt tracks established by those who ventured into the expanse to find wealth and vitality, pursued by the snorting, hissing monsters that brought civilisation in their smoke-filled wake.

And beyond Resurrection, there were the badlands, the vast, empty tracts in which that wealth might dwell, which punished the most ardent, the most intelligent, the best-prepared of people with their rigid, unyielding refusal to accommodate even the slightest failure. Rain had not touched some of these sands in aeons; for longer than humanity had had Oyada, the Ring Desert had been without rain in its centre, a place so dry it was uninhabitable. Even cacti, planted experimentally by hardy souls who must have been nervously glancing at their transport all the while, had burrowed hopefully into the soil and found nothing, to die and wizen into gnarled travesties of themselves. Camels, brought to work there as a more reliable alternative to motor transport, had wasted away for want of water. The only species that had managed to furnish an existence in this testament to deadness were a strange pair indeed: a great plant whose straggly stems, sharp as spinifex in order to catch out any luckless bird or beast that might approach with a view to a meal, hung half-heartedly into the occasional winds and otherwise stood languid above the burning earth and sand. Its stout roots burrowed deeply into the earth, far deeper than any cactus of earthly origin, with the aid of the second survivor, a tiny mole-like animal, lacking in organs of sight or smell but with a sense of hearing unlike any other, which diligently dug out its benefactor’s root-holes by night; by day, it slept beneath the sands, but just before dawn it emerged, regular as clockwork, and dug tiny pits around the plant’s circumference, into which wandering insects might fall. Even more bizarrely, once the plant had reached water, its burgeoning stems were then feasted upon by its diligent diggers, who were utterly immune to their sharp, brittle nature. Both sides seemed happy with the arrangement.

Along one of the less-travelled dirt tracks, projecting somewhat west-north-west of Funtara, the path was barred, rather unexpectedly, by a large metal fence whose manufacturers had considerately charged it with twenty thousand volts of electricity. A guard post, staffed by a bored-looking individual, typically overweight, controlled a large and pretty difficult to penetrate metal barrier, beyond the striped colours of which lay an unprepossessing three-storey structure. More accurately, it was a sprawl of structures, rambling off over fourteen square miles and, incongruously, painted to appear, from above, to resemble yet more desert. The wire fence was backed by another fence, higher and of stouter metal bars set deeply in concrete; the sixteen feet between the two was pock-marked with small, disturbed patches of earth, but otherwise it was all your usual important outlying facility sort of place. Two weary-looking helicopters sat dustily off to one side, attended to by three bored personnel whose ministrations consisted of drinking tea and talking while staring at their weathered fuselages from the confines of a shaded lean-to. Twenty miles distant, across the perfect flatness, Resurrection sparkled dewily under skies of vivid blue brighter than earth had ever witnessed.

One of the mechanics spat out a large wad of the local drug of choice, simply known as “lezh”, and glared through the mesh fence at the shimmering, mirage-like vista.

“Oi, Mick. Something moving?” he pointed an oily, gnarled hand to the distance, revealing it to be missing three fingers. The man beside him squinted.

“Yeah. Dust on the way.” The two exchanged looks, and returned to their chewing.

*****

Two hundred feet beneath them, a bespectacled man in his mid-fifties quickly looked up from his desk, Spartan MDF of the sort bought at MFI, as the glass-windowed door of his office reverberated to a knock.

“Enter!” The man paused, shuffled his papers a few times, and glanced up, looking as though he was rather surprised to find a man in the room with him. “Ah! John. Is that what I think it is, perchance?” His eyes swung greedily to the sheaf of paper the other man, Doctor John Berwick, carried with him. Berwick, short and almost too thin, shook his head, sending dirty fluorescent lamp light bouncing off his close-shaven head in all directions.

“No, sir. Just some reports from Third Directorate, concerning potential in the Martian colonies.”

“Oh.”

The younger man, no more than thirty, stood and grinned a tad. “However, Colonel. If you check your inbox, I believe you’ll find all you need.”

“Ah.” There was an embarrassed pause. “Would you, er… well, my eyes never did like reading from a screen, you see.” The Colonel coughed. “If you could; we really must be getting on,” he added unnecessarily, taking refuge in bluffness. Damn it all, Maria would have plenty to say if he mentioned this. “I’ve been telling you to go to the opticians for years, Vitaly. Will you? Will you hell! You spend all your time staring at tubes and screens! You’ll be the death of me, I just know it…” The Colonel cringed inwardly at the thought. Vitaly Napravnik still loved his wife with all his heart, but by all that was holy in the heavens, she did have a knack of nagging…

“Certainly, sir.” Swiftly Berwick moved to the desk, parking himself in the Colonel’s chair with easy familiarity. The two had, after all, known one another, and worked here, for nearly ten years, and Napravnik scarcely minded the insubordination. Skipping the preamble, Berwick launched into the report, his delivery swiftly descending into an even, measured lilt that could prove most relaxing if he were using the right words.

“Subject in question is one Ayemma Susukhi, thirty-four years of age. Resident on Aoatchi, city of Harbour Meadows, works for the Centre outpost there. Brought up largely by her mother. Her father died as a result of injuries sustained during service in the fourteenth tank division during the Battle for Newcomen Ridge, consisting of third-degree burns and smoke inhalation. Seven years after the peace he was working in one of the large flour mills in their hometown, also on Aoatchi and since absorbed into the New Kontao development, and apparently died from smoke inhalation after a serious fire.” Berwick paused, to look up at his superior, who was staring with an expression of vacant concentration at the wall.

“Go on, give me the lot.” The Colonel didn’t even look.

“Sir. Well anyway… ah yes. The coroner’s report indicated that the smoke inhalation was severely compounded by his injuries sustained on duty, including internal burns, smoke damage, and lasting damage to his legs. Received, prior to his death, the Imperial Tank Service Medal, the Distinguished Service Star, and – wow. Hero of the Oyadan Empire.” Seems the entire crew received the Hero.

“Anyway. Mother attempted to bring up the then-infant children as best she could. Received the usual assistance payments, but she was working every hour god sends for the chance. It seems that she died, as much as anything else from the workload, when Susukhi was nineteen and away at university.”

The Colonel grunted. “Rough life, eh?”

“Mmm. Two brothers. First, Pazhio, died six years ago at the age of thirty-one. His overalls became entangled in moving machinery which crushed his legs. Both were amputated. He was nearly killed again when a tram almost ran him down crossing the road; apparently he was…” There came another delay as Berwick turned the page. “Ah, yes. He was stabbed to death as he sat, alone, in a bar, to calm his nerves after the incident, by a man named Cooke; Cooke claimed that the disabled were diluting the purity of the race.” Napravnik snorted at that. “I kid you not, sir. Says it right here.”

“I can imagine it does, but that hardly makes it any less ridiculous.”

“It is, rather. In any event,” Berwick continued, rubbing his prominent forehead gently, “Cooke was sentenced to twenty-five years’ hard labour. He was killed after three years…”

“Good bloody riddance, too.”

“…by the younger brother, Jizagu.”

“You must be joking,” Napravnik exclaimed, his bushy eyebrows shooting skywards as he turned to his colleague.

“Nope, says it right here, sir. Seems Jizagu had always been the most troublesome of the three, had a bit of a temper and not much education. He discovered, by means unknown, where the prisoner was; he then went to the prison as part of a construction team hired to build an extra labour wing, where it seems he inveigled himself into Cooke’s favour and then beat him to death with a hammer.”

“Charming.”

“Yes, but Jizagu was let off. Owing to the fact that his victim was a violent criminal who was in there for a long sentence, it seems that the judge was minded to let him go with little more than a ‘slap on the wrist’, as they dub it. He didn’t get the chance, however, because the jury refused to convict him. They were drawn from the locality and ‘were pleased that there was one less violent criminal scumbag within walking distance’, according to one anonymous mail.”

Napravnik nodded. “So, we have so far a less-than-happy youth, at least. Does it keep going in the same way, or do we get out of the pulp fiction territory soon?”

“A little of both. If I might conclude the story of the family first, Jizagu was, eventually, let off, but found it difficult to find work. He eventually moved to the city-ship Chichen Itza and joined the local police, wherein he seems to have found a niche, and has been promoted to sergeant.”

The Colonel grumbled. “Not surprised he found a niche there. Bunch of undisciplined thugs, the police around there.”

“I daresay, sir.”

“Careful, Dr. Bervick.” Napravnik smiled a little, this mispronunciation unnoticed.

“Sir.” As did Berwick. “Permission to continue?”

“If we’re getting to the pertinent bits, by all means.”

“You’ll be glad to know that we are. While her family was going through all these hoops, it seems Ayemma did very little. Went to the University of Aichingrad, studied Biology under Professor E. M. Dawson, and graduated with a first. She then studied for her MSc under Dawson and a man of ours. You may know him – Tsuaiyo Suradzhiwa?”

“Ah yes, old Sai. Good man; he recruits some of our best.”

“That was why he picked Susukhi. He pointed her toward the Institution for Medical Biological Research, originally, but told her that CAMM was always looking for good staff. She went to work at the IMBR for three years, but found it uncongenial for reasons as yet unknown. Ever since, she’s been working for our outpost in Aoatchi, Section Fourteen; she’s been conducting extensive work into protecting crops, in conjunction with a private laboratory. Seems she’s very much a dab hand at obtaining samples from the wild, from animal populations especially. Her department head describes her as ‘a valuable member of my staff, whose work, especially on our latest vaccines for the grain-killing bacterium bacillus muyibanicum, has been of the highest calibre, and whose dedication is a superb example to all of her colleagues and subordinates’. She is reported to be a little shy, but personable once she is introduced, if she finds her interlocutor pleasing, and to be helpful and popular with her staff. Especially, it seems, the men,” he added, significant eyebrow-raising accompanying.

“Figures. Anything else important?” Napravnik looked fleetingly at his watch, aware that he had a meeting in two hours’ time.

“Just a little, now, sir. Her Section psychologist believes her to be largely stable, with certain qualities which mark her out; she has little difficulty in lying to people, having, this Psych surmises, done so for years during her childhood in order to boost her own morale and convince people that her life was not so difficult as was actually the case. She developed during her youth some aggressive tendencies, but these are less pronounced than those of her younger sibling. Susukhi also has a strong and entirely rational dislike of all foreigners, holding them responsible for the deaths of both of her parents, especially her father. Her memories of him are, apparently, few but distinct. When questioned directly on the subject, the recorded reply was: ‘Those outsiders we fought so hard to repel, they are the ones who killed my father. After him, they indirectly killed my mother. Those creatures are responsible for my parents’ deaths, and they are being left to roam free.’”

The Colonel whistled softly, letting air hiss between his crooked teeth. “She’s got the bit between her teeth, hasn’t she?”

“It seems so, sir. She largely channels this aggression through the methods encouraged in school physical education; her teachers noted that she had a particular aptitude for swordsmanship, and encouraged her to pursue the subject. It seems she’s now ranked only a little short of an instructor.”

“Dan.”

Berwick paused, confusing chasing around his features. “Sir?”

“Dan. The word is ‘dan’.” The Colonel sighed, recalling his own far-gone days of youth, and of the joy he had found in wielding his father’s old blade for the first, and mercifully the only, time. “Anyway, go on.”

“Sir. She maintained the practice at university and now assists the instructor at the Section on Aoatchi. The impression is that she compensates for her lack of physical strength by honing her skill to a point. She also demonstrates a great deal of loyalty to the discipline’s practices, likewise to her work; it seems that, having discovered one of her colleagues was attempting to smuggle some of the results of their work to a foreign laboratory, she was the one who blew the whistle.” Scrolling, Berwick frowned. “It seems this trait is also present in her brother; the Psych department conjecture that it may be due to their upbringing, having to be loyal to their mother and so forth. It’s just become second nature, and combined with her antipathy to the outsiders.”

“Any more?”

Berwick scrolled. “No, that’s it. Oh, and she should arrive in about fifteen minutes.”

Napravnik turned, finally to face him, balancing on the balls of his feet. “So. We have a determined, aggressive, driven woman, who can be friendly and charming, but can also be withdrawn and shy, and has absolutely no problem with lying to anyone outside of the small circle to whom she’s loyal, which usually consists of her family and the people she works for, to whom she seems to become dedicated. She has a pathological, and well-justified, loathing of foreigners, and obviously harbours some very severe resentment for their role in her parents’ untimely demise; and to finish her off, she’s also a proficient swordswoman and a highly skilled scientist.”

“Yes, sir. One who will, generally, do what it takes to get the result.”

Napravnik turned, leaned to the desk, and thumbed a button, his expression thoughtful.

“Miss Maybury. Do I have any visitors?”

“Yes, Colonel. A Miss… Susukhi to see you for potential transfer.”

“Bring her in.” The voice was no longer considering but decisive, commanding.

“Yes sir.” The intercom clicked and died.

“Let’s hope she’s what we’re after, John. Come. We shall find ourselves some drinks and then give her a grilling.”

*****

A column of dust, small and whipped away in vague and fitful breezes, traversed the lonely wasteland. At its centre gleamed dun-hued metal whose colour was being eaten with every passing second’s exposure to the rasping air, a rumbling mechanical beast of burden whose shape was unchanged from that of its distant ancestors. The truck grumbled irritably as its filters fought with the omnipresent powder that sought to choke its rattling diesel, and its driver, accustomed to but still resentful of Resurgam’s vagaries, grumbled with it. “Fucking dust. It gets everywhere, clogs the filters to hell and plays bloody havoc with the radiators.”

Beside him, a slim woman gazed from the open window, apparently unperturbed by the stinging dirt as it brushed at her eyes. “It must be a pain,” she agreed, without much sympathy. Her mind was busily turning over her imminent appointment, and she was not to be distracted.

“It bloody well is. Not, er, that I hold it against you, Ma’am,” the driver added hastily, sensing despite his irritation that his passenger, known to be something of a highflyer, was preoccupied. To his surprise, she turned, flashing him a hard smile.

“I didn’t say you did. You do your duty, despite the hardships and irritations. And without people like you,” she pressed mellifluously, “how would I get out here?”

“Why, thank you, Ma’am.” But she had already returned to the window, looking out over the hard and hardened world, seeing through the clouds of earth and snapping stones, contemplating. Unexpectedly, a biped suddenly came rushing, swiftly, in the opposite direction, charging madly towards the distant buildings as if the hounds of hell pursued it. Ayemma Susukhi smiled more broadly. Whatever she was being asked here for, she should at least have some interesting subjects upon which to work.

The truck thundered on, engine fading gradually as it approached the barred gates. Beyond them, prominent among the low-lying facility buildings, a tower rose majestically toward the heavens, light glinting from its tinted windows. Within the tower, two men watched the retreating biped earnestly though binoculars. They watched it pass the truck, still careering towards the city; they wanted it weave crazily between occasional upturned boulders and patches of vicious thorned cacti, and watched as it suddenly crumpled, to lie twitching in the red dust.

*****

“Good afternoon, and welcome to Resurrection Laboratory, a division of the Central Agency for Military Medicine. Please present your security pass to the automated scanner. If you do not have a security pass, or the scanner does not grant you admittance with your security pass, please present yourself at the security station in Sector One and await instructions.”

Mute, Ayemma presented her pass to the little scanner, discreetly not looking at the watching security cameras as it whirred to itself before spitting it back at her. Alarm slipped onto her face for the briefest of moments, before the pleasant female voice that had just given her the hollow greeting put her at her ease. “Thank you. Please proceed to the Central Station for transport to the Sector of your choice. You will require additional security checks if you with to enter Sectors twelve to fifteen; eighteen to twenty-three; and Sector thirty. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to ask at the security station beyond these doors.” The voice clicked away, as before her the massive steel door of the facility slowly slid open – to reveal another beyond it, firmly shut. Stepping uncertainly into the space between them, Ayemma could not stifle a shocked cry as the door behind her slammed shut with surprising speed.

“Please do not be alarmed. For security purposes, we must perform several scans in order to establish that you are free of any potentially dangerous materials. Thank you for your patience.” The voice did not need to tell her precisely what would happen if you were in possession of any potentially dangerous materials, of course. She knew that, somewhere in the facility, there were now several people looking at her through the carefully omniscient cameras, reading the scans that quick, quiet machines made of her body. She knew roughly the routine, of course; rapid X-ray scan, olfactory and hormonal scan, metal detection, thermographic and heart-rate estimation checks. All designed to see if she was tense, or if her five feet eight inches, clad in a classy but nonetheless ever-so-slightly suggestive white blouse, grey skirt and jacket, concealed a threat. A tiny aerial in the roof was, she surmised, conducting a quick check to see if she carried any beacons or other electromagnetic devices. All normal enough in the military facilities, but still. Usually they gave you a little more warning.

“Scan complete. You may now proceed.” The door beyond hissed lazily open, and she noted approvingly that it was at least six feet thick. The Oyadan military didn’t believe in doing things by halves; the drop in temperature confirmed the fact, as the combination of air-conditioning and suddenly being beneath the ground several feet took hold and washed away the baking heat of the outdoors. She glanced at her UC and noted that she still had some ten minutes before she needed to be at her appointment, within the surprisingly distant Sector Three; presenting herself at the security station, she smiled brightly to the young guard.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Er, yes?” The guard’s head snapped upward and darted around as he thrust aside the magazine in his idling hands. “Can I help you?”

Susukhi giggled a little, only partly involuntarily. “Well, I hope so. I was wondering if I should wait here for Sector Three.”

The young man brightened considerably. “Oh! Yes, yes. Wait at platform three. There’s one due in a few minutes.”

Thanking the (doubtless highly relieved) guard, she departed for platform three, and was not in the least bit surprised when a driverless train turned up to convey her hence. She sat back in her seat, carefully crossed her legs, hitched the skirt back down a fraction, and stared out at the view, her mind once more diverted to rolling through the questions she would almost certainly be asked.

*****

“Ah, Miss Susukhi!" Napravnik gave her his best smile, warming his craggy, jowly visage no end, as they shook hands. “Glad you could make it; welcome to Resurgam. I’m afraid I can do nothing to make the surroundings any less grim.”

Ayemma smiled back, slightly awkwardly. “Quite all right, sir. I’m afraid nobody can manage that yet.”

“Not yet… no, not yet. But ignore my wistful dreamings. May I introduce my colleague, Dr. John Bervick?”

“Berwick, sir.”

“He likes doing that,” the Colonel muttered. “Sit down, sit down. Drink?”

Ayemma demurred. “No thank you, sir.”

“Fair enough. Now, to business.” Napravnik coughed a little, taking his seat at ninety degrees to her, while Berwick took the opposite chair. Ayemma had never seen a table so vast used for an interview; it seemed to go on forever, polished cypress topped with immaculate green leather, totally out of place among the metal walls, the racks of tubes, the surprising volume of ill-assorted paper.

“I will be blunt; nothing, whatsoever, that you hear must leave this room. You are already bound by the Imperial Edict of Secrecy, and have been authorised clearance up to “Most Secret” level. I trust you are familiar with the penalties meted out to those who transgress His Imperial Majesty’s orders?” Ayemma nodded, solemnly. She, after all, had been the architect of one such punishment. Many men had sold their nation for gold, but few who did so had ever received so grim a death as that meted out to Oyadans who gave secrets to the outsiders. Not for nothing were they known as “gold-tongues”.

“Excellent. The reason you have been brought here is that you are, by all accounts, exactly who we are looking for. An excellent scientist, a dedicated servant of the nation, highly driven, determined and proficient in self-discipline; you are the ideal appointee for this duty.” He shuffled the paper unnecessarily. “Tell me: what is your view of our position in relation to the galaxy at large? What, in short, is your position on foreign relations?”

The silence was total. Berwick glanced at Napravnik with concern, but the old Colonel shook his head ever so slightly and he kept his peace. After some moments, Susukhi finally spoke; Berwick only then realised quite how disciplined she was, for the words that issued from her lips were delivered in a voice of the coldest, most tempered steel.

“The outsiders killed my father. They killed my mother with him. They deprived me and my brothers of… of the childhood we deserved. They came to us, seeking us out for destruction. To this day they remain, despite the efforts of some of our people, the enemy.” She turned an ice-cold stare on Napravnik. “I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted to hear; I know we must sometimes work with them, for the greater good. But I must be honest.”

It was all he could do not to laugh. She was quite something. Brilliant and utterly terrifying in equal measure. “So would you agree with that famous phrase, “honour for Oyadans”?

“Yes.”

Berwick’s turn. “Would you be prepared to work for the Agency overseas, in service of the Imperial Throne?”

“Yes.”

“Even engaged in activities which might not meet with approval from certain sections of society, and of the same sorts of people in the galaxy at large, for the benefit of the nation?”

“Yes.” The ice remained, unthawed, and when she turned to look at Berwick he found himself pierced by a pair of glaring eyes, deep and potent green, beneath whose rolling tones burned fires of infinitely chilled heat. “When I… when my mother died, I resolved that I would try to help. Help ensure that this would never happen to anyone else again. I joined what is termed the ‘Military Research Establishment’ by the press to ensure that we might never be starved by foreign plagues.”

“So,” the Colonel responded, “you would welcome the chance to take a more pro-active role in preventing any more of our people becoming victims of aggression.”

She breathed out, slowly, controlling every muscle, ever second of the exhalation, evidently reaching into her self-control to dispel the cloud behind her eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” He was all business, now, and all military with it. “You are to go to the Freethinker Commonwealth. You will find your mission’s details in the folder now held by Dr. Berwick.” Both men stood, and she followed suit. “No, sit. We will leave you to peruse the material for… shall we say, twenty minutes?”

“Ah… I, I see, sir. Yes, that should be enough time.” Ayemma reckoned the folder couldn’t hold too much. “Thank you very much. What if…”

“If you turn the position down?” Napravnik chuckled, a bass bubbling that set his slow-fattening belly jiggling slightly. “Then you are free to leave, of course. You must never speak a word of what you read, but of course, you are already trusted to do just that.” He risked a gentle pressure on Susukhi’s shoulder as she retook her seat. “If you are not interested, you need only tell us so when we return.” The two men left, shutting the steel door behind them; as it shut, Ayemma began to sift through the thin sheaf of papers. After two pages, she smiled. After four, she just about stifled a laugh that would otherwise have been heard in the adjacent hallway.

Twenty minutes after she had begun reading, Ayemma Susukhi sat on her chair, quietly sipping coffee from the conveniently free machine in the expansive, grey-walled room. Behind her, the door clicked open as her two interviewers returned.

Berwick, to her surprise, was the one to speak. “Well?” He asked the question without aplomb or formality; crunch time. Ayemma looked down and pursed her lips.

“When do I start?”

[Midlonia]

Benarbor, Freethinkers

Spying was, in reality, the most bloody boring job in the entire world. Nearly the whole time it was watch this, watch that, try to listen to this, capture copy of document that. The gentleman in question was a ghoul, quite surprisingly, a Midlonian born and bred he had served his time in the Mainland Corps with relatively little question, rhyme or reason. He was an H1 ghoul by the Herne rating system so little more than a surprisingly fit human being with heightened reaction times and hearing. Right now he was in office of Elector Amris' underling and 'gatekeeper' Benjamin Ferris.

Ferris' own record was the usual for people like him. Low level civil servant who managed to sniff out a rising star at just the right time and boot and arse licked them like there was no tomorrow so they were slowly dragged along in the inevitable currents and eddies of any political system with them. This meant they were tied in heavily, and typically their fates were intertwined.

Parasites.

Ah, here we go. 'Demographic sympathies and loyalties towards the concept of- God's sake, even the title is long winded, definitely a civil servant of the highest degree, desperate to justify their own existence. '- of the conceptualization towards a unified and harmonized front from the representatives of the cities to the central government.'

He shuffled his laptop bag a little and dropped the folder whole through a slot that presented itself with a quiet click before he retrieved it from the bag and placed it back into the drawer. With a quiet shuffle he heard the approaching whirring of a vacuum cleaner, so he ducked down behind the desk as the figure, a depressed looking middle aged woman whooshed past before the sound receded.

He shook the mouse slightly and the monitor hummed into life. Looking into the bag he chewed his lip as he pulled a cable out and attached it to a port on the computer, the nanites on the end of the connector changing to suit the plug as it began to blast at the internal firewalls as quietly as possible. There might be a slight trace after he was done, but the hope was nobody'd really notice as a result of it being a minor breech that was designed to flick back and forth before “stopping” at the second else third and being defeated while the actual access slipped into the back door.

It cracked after a few nerve racking moments and then set to work on sweeping around the hard-drive, civil servants were notoriously lax when it came to security typically, especially provincial ones. This particular spy had one found entire contact lists for a black market ring that had been supplying weapons to a terrorist group known as Odin's followers.

Simply thumping a big “download” button when it appeared he sat back and waited as the not inconsiderable information pack was taken down into the hard-drive and cracker in the laptop bag. 99.9% of the stuff on here would be mundane bollocks in the highest order. But that 0.01% might give them an insight into the mentality of the gatekeeper and the things Amris had been ordering him to do.

Namely the rumours of the re-establishment of the Free Cities League.

If such a thing were so, then it would be alarming to the Greater Kingdom's authorities who had fought the FCL some 190 years or so previously in the Freestian civil war, when the FCL had attacked the Midlonian colony of The Falcon Isles and nearly lost the colony, until a fleet of battleships and early carriers crushed them.

You could still visit the graveyard, as it was called, in a submarine for tours.
The device clicked softly as it confirmed it had finished it's download and with a slight chew of his lip he pulled the device from the computer and packed up.

They'd probably notice, but by then it'd be too late. He also had a feeling this Ferris fellow wouldn't want to admit to such a monumental fuck up.

-------------------

Freethinker Outback, Defluo Schola Unit 33b, Research Unit. Ork Warband sector.

“So, let me try and get this straight.” Kristian said as he looked out onto the single mecha that stood a few feet taller than a 2 story building armed with nothing but a large knife that doubled as an emergency cutting device in disaster areas. Somewhere in the distance kicking up a dust storm was a group of orks and their associated tanks and vehicles that they had somehow cobbled together from the empty wastes of the outback.

“Inside that Armour Mechanized Slave is a device which may or may not work at all largely because it depends entirely on the emotional state of the crewman?” Kristian said as he tilted his cap back a little and narrowed his eyes at the MIRA scientist, a Dr Venkman, shift a little uncomfortably and adjust his glasses.

“Yes, sir.” The man replied quietly after a while.

“Right... do excuse me while I ask what do we have in the case of a monumental fuck up?”

Venkman simply coughed and pointed skywards. “We have the Reminisce at about 40,000 feet ready to soak the area in plasma if this test fails. But it's hoped if this does work, and we can mass produce it then those weapons will become antiquities.”

“They said that about the sword when they invented the gun, Mr Venkman.Yet here we are, still hammering out Midlonian pattern cleavers.” Kristian thumbed his own briefly before looking back at the single mecha unit standing ready as the first ork unit hit the crest of the nearest dune and began firing wildly at the single unit standing ready.

It raised it's hand and held it palm outwards a shield appeared, apparently made out of a hazed red energy it's other hand flicked almost disdainfully at the first trukk that was still shooting. It suddenly flew to the side as if brushed by an invisible force.

Kristian's eye raised slightly as the prototype apparently worked. Then a tank shell rammed into the shield, causing the unit to be thrown onto it's back. It struggled to get back up. “Terminate the test.”

“Not yet.” The scientist replied as suddenly the Ork vehicles started exploding. A brief channel of energy before it exploded in a shower of metallic chunks and chunks of green flesh flying around.

“The Reminisce?” Kristian said looking to the Scientist who was grinning from ear to ear.

“Nope, the V-drive is doing it, the crewman is imagining the orks being wiped out and as they reach the field, an area about 100 feet around the unit. It converts that emotion into actual physical event.”

“This is ridiclous.” Kristian said. “And you say massed production? How many crewmen throughout the not inconsiderable Midlonian armed forces have you found with the abilities?”

The last of the orks were now smoking wreckage and pieces of bodies. The mecha was lifting itself back up into a standing position.

“Well?”Kristian asked again as Venkman looked uncomfortable before finally sighing and clearing his throat.

“Less than one hundred.” He finally replied, adjusting his glasses.

“The price so far?” Kristian said as he noticed there were numerous cuts and scratches' on the mecha's outside armour plating where the tank shell had torn through the shielding.

“Five and a half billion.” Venkman looked even more uncomfortable now.

“Mmmm.” Was the only comment from Kristian before he turned and walked away, traipsing slowly back towards the waiting hover-truck.

[The Freethinkers]

Oakland walked down the ranks, his Neanderthal-like brow knitted in concentration. Dustbin lid sized hands clenched into fists the size of bowling balls. He looked brutal. He was brutal, the sun parched skull and broken iron jaw of an Ork Warboss that now decorated the segmented pauldron of his formal body armour, and above the battered prosthetic that formed his right arm, lay testament to that simple fact. He brought the metallic fingers along the sash, across the metallic fruit salad that nestled on his chest, and let out a sigh in the midday sun, the heat getting to be a tolerable annoyance.

Mace stood alongside him, and beyond sat five hundred and ninety seven Midlonian Paras’, standing at attention in their desert rig, all worn but surprisingly clean, the more experienced also sporting some domestically bought kit alongside their government issue. They stood information with the rest of the Freethinker and Midlonian forces around them, a regiment or so that had been the principle force of the last exercise.

“Men and women, warriors all,” Bywater began, the massive ghoul’s booming voice carrying over the mass of men and material with no electronic aid. “A pleasure to see how many of you have come through, scared, perhaps, wounded, a few. We have sadly left comrades back in the untamed wilderness”, a moment of silence from the jovial crowd “their lives are testament to their bravery in facing down the horrors and trials that this land produces. They shall not be forgotten. It is easy to think that the planning that goes into these operations, and these are combat operations, designed to limit the spread of the Ork infestation and preserve the way of life of the Outback people as much as it to ensure the fighting edge of our armies remains sharp.”

“You have drawn blood. You have fought a merciless enemy, outnumbered, utilising your skills, your training and your equipment to win through the day,” He looked over all of them, smiling, all eyes and attention on the giant even under the ravaging sun. “It has been tough, but it is a tradition, shared back to the founding of the cities of the Commonwealth, that we do not claim our superiority on anything other than brute hard work and experience. We can claim to be the toughest on the planet, our Midlonian brothers included, and we take that from our time here.”

“So to you all, I say this. You are the finest your country has produced, titans in human form. You can walk tall, and proud, about the good you did here. Children of a common mother we are, and today once again we prove the strength of our breed and our heritage.” He took a step back.

“For King and Country.”

“HUZZAH” The valley roared. Mace smiled discretely at Oakland. He returned the gesture halfheartedly.

And a side note…

Ferris’ laptop would reveal a interesting assortment of things. A fetish for leather and Roanian pinups, a long distance affair with two separate women, a few diaries and reports, most of it public, collated perhaps and interesting bits snipped out for future speeches, a few drafts as well of these but not enough detail for anything useful.

But there was something that might have caught a watchful eye, something that unfortunately was no just inhabiting this computer hard drive either. But it might give some prep time.

The deal that had seen a Midlonian owned yard benefit and a Benarbor facility go bankrupt, a report by the SFO had been leaked before it postponement by the Government.

Turned out, the Midlonians hadn’t exactly been honest in the negotiations.

That was going to be a fun little political weapon for Amris.

The Western Arches Pub, Trenton, Navarre

“Hey!” Bradley looked annoyed, “just because I look good doesn’t mean I’m not interested in politics.”

The girl, coffee skinned and with a pretty smile, looked bemused. “Well, if you’re saying I don’t…”

“Look, tell me about this thing then. Would be good to expand my interests.” He smiled, strong features working into a decent, almost sincere grin. “At least give me a name?”

“Alisha”, she said, saying the name softly. “Oh! The group is the “Hykar Appreciation Society.”

“Wait a minute…”

“It’s ironic.” She smiled. “Then again maybe not. We don’t hate the Midlonians, in fact…” She shook her beer bottle, a Midlonian brand. “Just their influence….not even that. Just Miss Midlonia in our hot seat and the damage it is causing.”

“Think Fara’s alright.”

“Really? And all the money that goes to Midlonian corporations…”

“Goes to a lot of other people as well.” Brad replied, thinking of his employer.

“Well…anyway, we’re hosting our meeting here if you want to come along? I’ll…be around after to talk for a bit.” Alisha looked at the floor for a second. Bradley gave an affirmative nod.

The meeting was in the same pub, tucked into one corner in one of the smoking lounges. A lightbulb shook as a train passed over the tracks above the place. It was long, boring, factually lacking like most political speeches and the speakers smelled of libraries and cabbage, or so Bradley surmised. A surprising amount of hate for Farahind, some of it near vitriolic. Alisha almost seemed uncomfortable.

That said, something interesting was going on.

A couple of ghouls were in attendance. A decent sized H2, nothing out of the ordinary, but…

The other was the first H6 that Bradley had ever seen.

A massive bull of a man…well, man wasn’t the right word. Taller and thicker than a decent sized Ork and unable to sit down without breaking the chairs, the giant listened with a stern expression, hand around a pint glass. He was old, and he bore numerous faded tattoos of various army regiments…a veteran of the Second Moonstone War.

No wonder he was here.

[Midlonia]

The Golden Dove, Swadlincote

Power is a relative term. People think the ministers and the Mps and the Kings hold all the power. The reality is a cross between corporations and private companies, the financial sector and the ever present civil servant.

The civil servant is eternal when it comes to power, they outlast governments and much like Clodius some can simply outlive the careers of the Mps and Ministers that might wish to change things too significantly. Ministers came and go but civil servants were forever.

And because of that, they hold great sway.

Power, true power in government wasn't practiced in the fancy buildings and palaces where the government was kept. It was in pubs and restaurants. Deals made and contracts written verbally and agreed on long before actual pen was put to paper or document electronically made.

Derek Cornwall was a special adviser of sorts to both the Balfour Beatty construction company and the Foreign and Economics ministry for one of the under ministers below Hilcrest. Being a Special Adviser he was privy to certain information like foreign deals that might be coming up for grabs before they're actually public, or before companies that might be interested had been informed by the nearby government or other contractor.

The latest round of ship building from the Commonwealth had managed to land on his desks weeks before it was even publically announced. He had passed on this information, with suitable financial remuneration of course, and left things at that.

Balfour Betty meanwhile had gone on a massive PR exercise and “palm greasing” dropping the right hints here, knocking a bit of money off there, greasing certain civil servants here...

Then there were now rumours flying about over alterations in attitude towards Berabos after it had been revealed a report that made Midlonia look bad had somehow been leaked from the Freestian Government some Midlonian Spook had brought back the rather delightful information somehow. The message was quietly going around to be prepared for damage limitation exercises.

Cornwall was instead running a saving-career exercise.

He pushed his way into the busy smokey pub. It was a far cry from the usual government rumour bars which were often frequented by journalists hiding away in cubby holes ready to hear of plots and affairs.

He moved his way through the smokey pub, his cheeks shining pink slightly from the exertion taken to get here. Spotting somewhere in one of the corners, pratically propping up the bar was a large gentleman in a dark blue suit drinking a healthy pint of Bass beer, the distinct blue triangle on the side of the beer glass being a common sight in Midlonia and the world over.

“Why the sudden meeting Cornwall?” Barry Balfour said as he lit a large cigar and took a few puffs.

“Because somebody other than the Navarrian Government found out about our little arrangement.” Cornwall muttered as he passed the other man what appeared to be a newspaper. Barry opened it, his slightly golden hued eyes scanning the page before his eyes stopped and a slight cough eminated from him. His cigar jostled slightly before he plucked it from his mouth and looked at Cornwall.
“How the fuck did she get hold of that report?” Balfour snarled.

“Ferris, her civil servant and gatekeeper.” Cornwall hissed as he sat back and rubbed his temples. “We have to plan some way of getting them both before they release that report and use it as a massive political weapon against you, us and Farahind.”

Balfour scratched his considerable chins and blinked a little in thought. “Have they ever had an affair with each other?” Balfour said quietly. “Used government property for personal or even profitable means?”

“Don't know. I have someone I know digging around a little. Haven't you got people to do that better than me, a lowly civil servant?” Cornwall snapped quietly.

“I do. I'm just wondering what to do.” Balfour murmured. “I might have an idea. Good old fashioned sex scandals work out nicely.”

“It's the Commonwealth, Balfour.” Cornwall said with a shake of his head. “Turned out another representative had been having affairs with his secretaries, both male and female for years. The spouses and partners of the secretaries were annoyed because they hadn't been invited along for ménage a trois.”

“Just leave it to me, Cornwall.” Balfour said quietly.

-----------------

Spire of Navarrok

Clodius would have scented the strange smell the moment he moved towards his quarters. The grand predator could have gone one of two ways. Attack or a more cautious movement. Thankfully he recognized some of the smell and moved carefully towards his balcony. There stood leaning quite casually on a cane was a man with short greying hair and pale golden eyes in a faintly ridiculous set of old Midlonian explorers clothing, a heavy backpack was leant rather casually against the massive door portal. The figure turned and simply quirked a small smile at the grand killing machine as it entered and looked quite quizzically at the figure standing bold as brass on his balcony.

Balcony was perhaps the wrong word, mind, a giant dias that overlooked the city. Clodius slinked forward, snakelike almost, weaving between the columns that held up the arched ceiling above. Morning sun and a cool breeze graced the scene. "Alright old boy, how did you get in?"

“Oh, usual ways.” he grinned and waggled his hands and chuckled. “I thought I'd drop in after a few weeks out in the Outback. You know how easy it is to piss off those Sand Dragons of yours?”

"They're a piece of piss and you know it. Just glad you didn't snapped by a Basilisk or something." The dragon grinned. "Can the staff get you a drink? Atia, if you would?" The harem attendent moved out in Clodius' wake, humanform and wearing only a flowing veil around her waist, moved up and nodded curtly. Clodius looked defiantly ahead, shaking roughly in the sudden chill.

Heruss nodded in thanks. “Thank you Atia, but no thanks. I had a drink before I came.” he quirked an eyebrow at Clodius. “Certainly a perk of the job you'd get crucified over if you tried that back in the Greater Kingdom.”

"Freedom has its advantages. People are still grateful for what we did here."
Atia nodded graciously and departed.
Heruss turned and looked out on the city below stretching from one horizon to the other, the entire bay of Navarre and the spire's splendour stretched out below. “I wonder how people perceive that Freedom though.” Heruss suddenly said, his brow furrowing.

"By being libatious little shits. I guess its a human thing." He walked up and stood beside the Midlonian, resting on his hind legs, wings curled up behind him. "Still, life's good. Been busy with the prep work for your principal's visit. I take it you don't want reminding of it?"

“That thing is always a planning nightmare. Most of the good feeling stories being pumped out by the government with regards to the terror threat is a load of shit, you know that. Right?” Heruss shook his head and tapped his cane on the floor twice. “Things are bad out there at the moment and the strain and public questioning of the Navarrian link is causing a bit of unpopularity. Especially with those weirdos in the Midlonian Front.”

"Yeah, we got a few of those types here. Thankfully most of them bugger off to the desert and don't come back." He grinned, a giant flash of scimitar like teeth, before the draconic settled down, resting on all fours, head curved out over the edge. "I think there's a few elements wanting to stir up stuff though. I wish Farahind could see that her overt affection makes things difficult." He looked over at Heruss. "And there's been some discontent from some of the other cities. Its getting louder, more than it has been in a while. This Free Cities league thing is really try to score points from it."

“That's a name I've not heard in a while.” Heruss said with a snort. “They going to try for the Falcon Isles again or do we need to add to the Graveyard?” The Graveyard reffered to the massive pile of scrap metal and rusting hulks of the bulk of the FCL's navy during the 1912 war.

"Different thing, just borrowing the imagery. And lets not forget memories in certain places remain bitter."

"You reckon there's anything to it?" Clodius refered to the rumours, though he didn't specify it. His body slowly rose and fell in big deep breaths.

“Which rumours?” Heruss asked nonchalontly as he watched one of the newer Midlonian Gravitic ships arrive into Navarre, one of the mega tankers sitting below it in the bay nearby.

Clodius watched the similar spot, out in the bay, the scene playing out a dozen times in nearby berths. "Hykar's getting more than just his end away." He smiled. "Well, probably. Its hard not believe given how many links exist. But some are noticing. Some remember the wars and wonder if its right. But then our livespans mark us out."

“The last war was, what? 150 years back now? Am I standing here trying to slice you open or any of the older ghouls?” Heruss shrugged. “Besides, has anybody ever taken a proper look at Navarre and how pretty much runs it economically?” He waved his hand across at the scenes. “Menelmacari and then the Midlonians. If anybody wants to play conspiracy theories they should be looking at the Masons, not at the fact the King's banging their Prime Minister.”

"Perhaps its just the human need to identify one's own culture and stand against any percieved threat." Clodius tilted his massive head up. "Its all connected. That threatens whichever line people draw."

He swung around and rose up. "Sorry, just meandering. Hows Khristian these days?"

“Oh getting stressed out at the fact I only ran a regiment and he has to run a brigade while I finally get vaccation time.” Heruss grinned at that, his small fangs poking out and a laugh soon followed. “Different stresses but he seems to be doing better than me at keeping hold and check on the...” Heruss mentally counted them. “52 different items and artifacts that could bring about either the destruction of the planet or known universe.”

"Cracking. How long you in town for?"
“Oh I'll probably hang about until after the visit, keep an eye on things, then I think I'll take a little walk towards Delta City.” Heruss looked at Clodius. “I hear there's some ruins out there that haven't been charted.”

Two and a half thousand miles of sand and steppe. "Nice, sounds...fun." Clodius smirked. A flash of flesh and muscle, and Clodius sat kneeling on the stone floor. "Fuck me I hate doing the fucking tail."

“Ah shut up. You guys chose the humanforms.” Heruss snickered. “Can't complain.”

“You know," He rose, stretching and cracking various joints. "I always wondered that. Never have been able to do anything else."

“Probably a one-shot charm by some dying Midlonian Mage.” Heruss said as he turned to look Clodius up and down. “You putting on weight old man?”

"You know what, I think I'm just getting ready to hibernate. What's your excuse?"

“Retirement.”

[The Freethinkers]

Abha grinned more than a little flirtatiously as she pulled the white opaque stocking up to the edge of her chemise. She rose from the corner of the bed, in a single graceful movement she picked up and wrapped the semi-transparent robes around her, thin wavy sheets of fabric that draped around her form. Freestian dress robes were very flattering for the generally in-shape Freestian population. "Thanks for agreeing to come along." She whispered at her companion. Outside the penthouse the harbour of Benarbor stretched from horizon to horizon under the evening sun.

The tall man smiled at her, pulling her close, dressed in a heavy dress uniform that looked quite out of place in the environment, its deep black fabric reflecting tiny glimmers of starlight in places, its elaborate collar decorated with insignia in gold and ruby. "It's no trouble," he said, "I'm not exactly busy," that was of course, always the case when one could be in multiple places at once.

"Oh hush. Now, remember." She paused, enjoying the touch briefly. "These are people who I count as friends and need as allies. I'm sure you know how to behave, but a little discretion in terms of our relationship is...advisable." She looked up at him. "People talk."

The remote paused for half a second, and then smacked Amris' backside playfully, "Oh, so what capacity am I here in, then?" he asked teasingly.

Abha let out a soft sigh. "A companion, a cherised one." She smiled upwards. "Sorry, just the life of a politician means everything has to be watched." The smile turned to a frown. "I didn't mean..." She hugged him tightly.

"You underestimate the restraint I'm capable of," he said, "if you're that worried about being kissed in public though, you should probably give up now. It'll only make you more human. Even if your lover is a miles long death machine from the deeps of time. Now, smile!"

"That's...something I still have to get used to." She kissed him softly, obeying his command. "Don't go boasting."

"You look good, by the way."

"Thank you darling. And a gentleman never kisses and tells," he said, wrapping his arm around hers, "even if I'm more a monster than a gentleman..."

"You'll fit right in..." Abha laughed, only half-jokingly.

Royal Freethinker Veterans Appeal Ball, The Hyperion, Benarbor

The soft tingle of clanging glasses mixed in with soft jazz music as the guests began to mingle. The size differential alone between the various men and women was staggering, the roughly normal sized human officers in bright whites and navy blues (along with a black clad Vampire here and there) mixed with giants of varying degree in dark and light greens.

"Amris!" One enormous dark grey uniformed figure approached Abha, two serving tray sized hands encircling the representative in a friendly but all encompassing grasp. The figure was Tribune Marshall Bywater, eight foot of muscle with a shock of grey hair and the usual array of scars Army and Marines seemed to carry here.

"Steve. Good to see you!" Abha gave a return hug, not even reaching halfway around but making up for it in enthusiasm. "Doing well I see." Another quick pause as she took a step back. "Oh, sorry, Marshall Bywater, this is..."

"Telissat," he said, shifting his weight forwards onto the balls of his feet for a moment before extending a relatively normal human hand for the enormous man, taking the time to review public records about the man as he did so.

"Telissat...you work in communications?" Bywater smirked as his rather poor joke. "I kid, thanks for coming to this little shindig." A line of medals was strung across his chest. A full sized cleaver swung in its scabbard at his waist, but otherwise there was little decoration save his epaulets.

"Stephen Bywater, Tribune Marshall of the Freethinker Royal Armed Forces, supreme head of the Commonwealth's military." Abha finally stated, turning to her companion.

"I have been known to orbit the earth," he said, his own 'uniform' completely free of decoration, glancing at Abha, content to let her talk for a while, nodding in acknowledgement of her introduction with a little smile.

Bywater gave him a more inquisitive glance. If Telissat was good enough (and he was, to be blunt) he would notice one eye moved artifically, a lens flashing through spectrums and focusing on each wavelength. "I have heard a few things about you. You have been noticed, in certain circles." He looked back at Amris. "Its good for you both to come along." Another half turn back to Telissat. "Abha has been a good patron for our cause. She's actually been a major fundraiser and activist on our part."

"So I'm told, yes," he said, glancing at Abha, "she does seem very active with any number of important causes."

"Not just active." Bywater seemed to turn both serious and jovial. A massive arm wrapped around Amris' shoulders. "Girl pretty much fronts our funding effort down here. Makes the lads' proud of her. Felt kinda sad some foreign git came in and snatched her!" He gave a wink. "No offence, but this lass is Freestian to the core."

"I'll try not to be too annoying about it," Telissat said, "but really now, if you will leave national treasures unattended, you should expect them to be snatched," he kissed Abha's cheek gently for a moment.

"Heh, fair enough. How you enjoying your stay?"

"It's all very hospitable," he said, "and the company is excellent," he said with a glance to Abha.
Bywater took a step back, releasing Abha to return to the C'tani's side. "You know. You have people talking, that ride of yours."

"Ride?" he asked.

"The warship. You have had a few of my colleagues, scared. You know what you can do. Farahind herself was surprised at what we had to technically manoeuvre to counter you."

Abha shifted uncomfortably.

"Counter?" he asked, slightly bemused, "You hardly need to worry about goodwill visits," he said, "besides, we're harmless, really."

"Paranoia breeds easily" Bywater said. "And I can't exactly defy the Prime Minister, no?"

"Well, no harm done," he said, with a little shrug, "Though I'm sure whoever had to do the legwork probably thought otherwise."

"Now I know, that you know, where you rank compared to what we can do." He moved in slightly closer. "You got her spooked, you know."

"That certainly wasn't the intention. Our ships are less dangerous to the Commonwealth landed than they are in orbit. And we're there every day of the year."

"I don’t think its your intention or presence itself causing the issue...but I digress." He took a glass from a pass tray and proffered its companions to Telissat and Abha. "Enjoy the party, a pleasure to meet you two."

[Oyada]

The same truck, storm-beaten and scarred by its long days of labour, trundled out of the gate. The same passenger waited within it, carefully repeating in her finely-honed mind the orders she had read, turning over possible nuances, searching for clues as to the object of her work. She could make an educated guess, naturally, as to what it might be, although she had already begun the steady and paradoxical process of forgetting her guess, forcing it back into her mind and almost out of consciousness entirely. Her duty was to accomplish her orders to the best of her ability, not to second-guess their eventual greater purpose, and she intended to do nothing else. Her father had always spoken the same words, when the wine flowed and conversation became free; when Ayemma and her brothers had been hustled away upstairs, and listened, clandestinely, to the conversations drifting upward into the cool summer air; always the same topics would come around, sooner or later, familiar friends to all below, and the old ghosts would steal from his scorched, scarred lips, slurring stridently into the streets from sweat-misted windows thrown open against the dampened heat. Pazhio and Jizagu might have picked out the heroism he so lauded, the excitement and action he recounted, in his oft-recalled tales of the bloody, fiery days that had passed on the Newcomen Ridge, but Ayemma’s recollection had always been of his savagely, bitterly proud mantra: “we did our duty, for the Empire, for everyone else”, a phrase that could not lose its meaning, despite endless repetition.

Duty, self-discipline, giving up one’s own petty desires for the good of the many; he had done all of that and more, hurling away his health and almost his life in the inferno of his burning tank, and in doing so condemning himself to a lifetime’s pain and deprivation. From the shadowed stairwell, she had heard him continue when there was no-one else left, railing against the long-vanished foe that had deprived him of the life he had only just begun, and remembering the lives of so many others stolen. When her mother, inevitably, trod her weary path to bed, Ayemma would sometimes, too, hear stifled sobs echoing from the thin-walled bedroom; never had she entered, despite the way it had disturbed her. Perhaps duty was a paradox; it brought people together, but just as surely tore them apart, isolating them from the ordinary world and its people no matter what their experience, just as it had isolated her from some of her colleagues, and from all who would question, however well-intentioned, what she did. They could not understand, and nor could they know; even when secrecy had long since passed the point of usefulness, they had no means to comprehend what even long-fulfilled duties could, and did, stand for. It was, in a lonely fashion, a comforting thought. But then, what was loneliness, but the inevitable burden of those fulfilling great obligations, unknown to their fellows?

The truck bounced and jolted on, gradually accelerating as the road became more solid, the driver easing the rattling diesel open, cursing the setting sun as it glinted into his eye from the North, filtering through broken cloud and casting long, malformed shadows from rocks and plants. Glancing to her new driver, and noting his difference in tenor – for his curses, real though they were, were spat through gritted teeth that never turned from the road – she spotted a pair of weird figures beside the road, making their way awkwardly from a similar vehicle to her own, clad in the unmistakeable garb of men in close proximity to things to which no man should ever be near. The truck slowed and swung around to pass its sister, and Ayemma peered more closely at the two figures. Upon their legs, as they plodded slowly in their bright, white, cumbersome suits, the low shadow of a bipedal corpse played, the last heat shimmer dancing in the early sunset above its form, distant and inert. Ayemma wound up the window, making sure it was doubly tight; her companion, silent, had long since turned off the whining airflow into the baking cab.

*****

In the distant stalk of the tower, topped with its outsized flower head of glass and concrete, Colonel Napravnik watched the receding form of the truck, standing rigidly at the eyepiece of one of the large telescopes that he insisted upon using, despite the presence of numerous far more acute electronic methods of observation all around him. If he wished, he could see exactly what the recovery team were seeing, peering vicariously through their eyes as they inspected and collected the biped’s carcass. Yet the telescope, anachronistic as it was, had its advantages; he could choose exactly what he wanted to observe, and when, right now, he wanted to observe their latest recruit’s departure, and thus his glass concentrated on the weather-beaten lorry as it chugged cautiously past the recovery vehicle, before resuming its barrelling journey Eastward. Behind him, one of the many banks of computers that lined the room’s walls abruptly squawked at the assembled trio within – the two men who had watched the creature’s flight had never departed, preferring to take careful notes in delicate copperplate, which their pads then quietly transformed into legible text. Assuming, of course, that they could read it; the tablet system was still imperfect when it came to handwriting recognition, which had led to a few interesting misunderstandings over the years. Nobody who had been at Resurrection more than a year, for instance, could forget the saga of the mysterious new plant species identified in the desert; only after much searching had it later been revealed to be an electronic misreading of the words “sedimentary stone formations”. This was why the machines also stored an exact impression of their masters’ scrawlings, nowadays.

Napravnik disliked misunderstandings a great deal, and had little time for those who used them to excuse failures or exculpate themselves from blame for poor judgement. Misunderstandings cost lives, especially in Resurrection; for that reason he had taken pains to remind the staff of the importance of printing their original copies for comparison. Since he was in the room, the two scientists – unknown to Napravnik, but marked by their arm badges as belonging to the Neurology Division – were following his instructions with commendably strained assiduousness. Abruptly, the fattening Colonel turned to one of the pair and barked a question.

“Where are the collar readings?”

“Monitor five, sir,” the white-coated figure replied nervously, showing up a slight tic in his left cheek muscles. Napravnik made a mental note to put the man on heightened psychological watch as he strolled to the relevant screen, reading for himself data recorded throughout the frenzied sprint for safety that Specimen 1066 (as the biped was tersely named) had made, a journey doomed to failure. Graphs and symbols paraded slowly down the soft-lit monitor, series of bright lines, of with peaks and troughs, rising to glittering zeniths, plummeting to the endless plateau of zero; and Napravnik smiled brittle approval.

*****

Liners are graceful. The first thing most people can tell you about any sort of liner (aside from the variety that one finds in cylinders) is that they all, by dint of a fortuitous combination of the need for a hydrodynamic hull shape with plenty of capacity for passengers and cargo and the desire of their owners to make them as luxurious as possible, embodied the very best that their age had to offer in style, comfort and, of course, speed. The tradition continued to flourish in Oyada, a fact of which Ayemma was happily aware as she waited, patiently, in the queue for second-class boarding to her ship; not unnaturally, she had supposed she would travel first-class, in the most luxuriant of surroundings, pampered and waited on by her very own squadron of attendants, but sadly it made sense for her to go second; as Napravnik had explained, it eased the chronic budgetary problems of the CAMM, which, like most people, Ayemma would have had no problems whatsoever in exacerbating if presented with a wine list, the opportunity for a couple of Jacuzzis, and the magical words “paid for by employer”. And anyway, it was better than third-class, deep within the bowels of the ship, surrounded by the constant vibrations of her machinery. Travelling thus was cheap, but sleepless, and she might well need all the sleep she could get. Even the best-equipped of luxury liners could prove a trying experience for unseasoned travellers, despite their top-of-the-range dampening systems, their carefully configured neutralising mechanisms, and their unimpeachably comfortable berths.

The liner trade was, after all, a competitive business, and its watchword was speed, with comfort following a close second. The problem was basically simple: the sheer distance between the stars was so vast that it rendered travel at any velocity below that of light (and indeed, even velocities several times that) a distinctly long-winded business, which necessitated the use of faster-than-light engines. For Oyadan ships, the problem was that their aster-than-light engines operated by a principle known to engineers, scientists, and other people who wore white coats and did complex things with numbers, as “quantum-level inter-dimensional tunnelling”. Ayemma had once spent two fruitless evenings attempting to understand the more basic aspects of this esoteric discipline, and discovered, on the second night, just how fantastically interesting reading long political tracts, by obscure extremists living in places she had never heard of, could be. The essence of it, as she understood matters, ran thus: in order to move faster-than-light, one had to somehow bypass various irritating physical laws (such as relativity), and that meant either coming up with something akin to magic, or not being in a universe that had such annoying constraints woven into its fabric. Oyada had adopted the latter approach; by some method she didn’t comprehend, it was apparently possible to literally “tunnel” from one universe, or one dimension (whichever it was) to another, in which troublesome physical laws were less of a problem. Once there, you could move many times faster than light; in fact, you could move as fast as you pleased, or so it seemed, before having to repeat the entire process in reverse and “tunnel” back into the universe (or dimension, or whatever the hell it was called) whence you had come.

Since one’s speed, in what the textbook had helpfully termed “non-Einsteinian sub-spatial planes”, seemed functionally to be unlimited, this process was, of course, very quick indeed. It was quite possible to fling a spacecraft of many tens of thousands of tonnes around the galaxy as though it were a penny on a desk, in less time than it took to sneeze. The problem was that doing so required truly staggering amounts of power, and therein lay the difficulty for shipbuilders and the root of discomforts on even the most comfortable of liners. Even in second-class, Ayemma knew as she hefted her case into the hands of a waiting porter (who scurried off, undoubtedly to put it through every form of scanner known to man), she was scarcely more than tens of feet from many hundreds of tonnes of caged machinery, and its incessant, insistent noise made its way through the very fabric of a ship’s hull, as a dull, low-toned throbbing, sometimes barely at the threshold of human hearing, always present. Even when these ships were idle, they were never silent, for within their hulls lay perhaps a dozen high-powered fusion reactors, and at least as many sets of engines and alternators, and other machinery rather outside her field of expertise, all humming to themselves, providing power for lights, for navigation equipment, for heating, for the ship’s galleys – though she always called the latter “kitchens”, having about as much nautical experience as a puma.

The fastest liners were those which had the most power; they could not only cover greater distances in each jump, but had a shorter warm-up and cool-down time for their enormous teleportation equipment. Most of the larger liners maintained three or four separate sets, arranged funnel-like atop their superstructures and reaching down into their bellies, each able to provide enough power to carry the ship many light-years in a single jump, maintained by vast crews, hundreds of skilled men – and it always was men, Ayemma noted, not a little sourly – whose work it was to monitor the sensitive systems as they patiently propelled the huge steel creature around them, and repair them when (inevitably) they failed on occasion. In addition to the power requirements of the teleportation equipment, there was the equally pressing necessity of fast sub-light performance, which had made the difference of hours in long transits; while the teleportation equipment was being charged and checked, the ship’s sub-light engines would drive her along, through the infinite wastes of space. Many of these engines could work their ships to respectable fractions of the speed of light in their own right; indeed, with some Captains, it was a point of pride to take their ships as close as they could to the light barrier on their sub-light engines, waiting until they could accelerate their charges no more before bringing the colossal teleportation machinery into life. Most of these Captains had beards, for reasons as yet unexplained.

At the other end, her luggage awaited, none the worse for its trip through various machines with interesting symbols on them; she collected it with a friendly smile, and strolled along the long, glass-walled tunnel that led to the great liner with a sense of only the slightest trepidation, her mission almost, for the moment, forgotten; for who can suppress some frisson of excitement, for good or ill, at the beginning of a great voyage, especially one with a momentous purpose? Certainly not Ayemma; such trips were laden with memories, of every hue and every mood, having journeyed the Empire in search of the elusive flora and fauna that were her irresistible preoccupation. A space voyage was always a discovery; she revelled in the pleasures of learning the pathways of her new surroundings, of finding the little vignettes of mystery that filled every ship, of watching, where she could, the empty universe speed by, of anticipating the sights that awaited her. Only the memory of one journey, one particular confinement within the metal womb of a starship, haunted her; then, she had prowled her cabin and the ship’s decks, imprisoned less by the structure around her than by the knowledge of what she would find at her destination, of what had to come: the sombre ceremonies to perform on her homeworld, and the sad, leafless tree, standing forlorn in the wintry breeze, that must mark her mother’s grave.

The passageway ended, abruptly and without ceremony, in a stark lift, its windows blank-faced, surrounded by a deep, dark-painted shaft. Presently, as Ayemma and her fellow passengers jostled their way into its confines, the lift’s doors swished shut, and it began a surprisingly rapid and silent ascent. Doors and hatches, covered in bright warnings to the unwary, flashed by, and she began to fall into that self-absorbed torpor that afflicts many stranded in such a contraption, surrounded by strangers, with nothing to see.

And then, abruptly, the darkness vanished, to be replaced by darkness infinitely deeper and more profound than its hopeful predecessor; and filling the centre of that darkness was a wall. A giant wall, stretching from left to right, top to bottom, consuming the view in every direction, of steel; white-painted, details lost to the eye against the sheer monumentality of its proportions. Ayemma squinted, her eyes adjusting to the brightness of its reflected light, bouncing from stars and station alike, as the lift continued its ascent, slowly clawing its path up the side of the gigantic plate of metal before her. As her eyes adjusted, shocked, to the scene, she began to pick out the fine points that decorated the mighty slab’s seemingly featureless flanks; thousands upon thousands of tiny pin-pricks of light, vying optimistically with the body of cleanest white surrounding them for the viewer’s attention, crowded in from every side, laced by a tiny, filigree-thin trio of lines, seeming to circumnavigate the colossus; Ayemma peered, puzzled, at them, until suddenly it clicked; she was looking, to her stupefaction, at a ship. At her ship; and those three minute bands circling what must be the upper portion of the thing’s hull were the metro system, carrying passengers between berths and whatever they desired, and crew on their way through the rat’s maze of their vessel, passing from duty to duty. Like ships in the night, Ayemma chuckled, internally and silently, but went on staring, unaware that her jaw hung, half-slack, in the crowded chamber as it continued its ascent. Upward and upward, rising along the pattern of portholes, an uninterrupted panorama of gleaming metal, blotting out the stars; a view clearly designed to impress, to overawe the traveller, and to hammer home the message: something of such majestic proportions could hardly be vulnerable; safety was assured. Ayemma knew better than that, of course; if even the mightiest creature might be felled by but a microbe, it stood to reason that even the mightiest vessel could be destroyed by something far smaller than her. Yet, for all its illogical reasoning – a phenomenon that greatly irritated her, when she knew of it – she could hardly help the primitive feeling of safety the ship’s gargantuan appearance conveyed. Its very being radiated a steadfast, solid impregnability. Surely nothing could possibly harm such a titan! And titan the ship was, for they were still ascending, and had been for some minutes, despite the fast-working mechanisms powering their glass cage.

Ayemma turned from the vertical and cast her eye to her right, noticing in doing so that the thing’s length was even more preposterous to the senses than its height; tapering away toward… well, not a vanishing point, of course, but to what seemed a ludicrously thin wedge, with the sparkle of polished silver on a summer’s day. Along this length, towers identical to hers reached up to various levels, connecting to the ship’s passages by yet thinner, insubstantial-seeming gangways of glass and equally polished metalwork, slim stalks reaching out, supplicant, to the vessel’s bulk. Still they ascended, though the lift had now slowed its formerly eager rush; they were obviously near journey’s end, a fact brought home moments later as the machine ground to a weary halt. Beyond glass doors, a doorman attired in white uniform beckoned, strong and smiling. No doubt he hated his job; but it was his job to be white and brave, strong and smiling, no matter what the provocation the people he served might lay at his feet, and so Ayemma gave him a bright smile as she pulled her case awkwardly through the relatively narrow door, and the doorman beamed back, brittle and hard, waving his arm grandly towards the far-off far end of the gangway. Click-clacking merrily – for even though nobody of any note would see her, ‘no Susukhi should ever be seen scruffy’, as her mother had always said. Her mother; Ayemma’s thoughts clouded momentarily, recalling that painful journey, so similar in many ways to this one, but soon resumed their old pattern, though not without a little effort. The past was done with, and could not be changed, after all, she told herself firmly; it was her task, and her opportunity, to change the future, for herself and for everyone.

Ayemma went back to perusing her temporary home. By now, the hull was beneath them, the ship’s weather deck coming into view, and rising from it the giant, blunt-nosed wedding-cake of her superstructure, crowded with still more lights; larger, now, and obviously for more spacious rooms than those in the great ship’s hull. That, she realised, staring down the length of the massive vessel as she trod the slightly sloping gangway, was second class. Moreover, probably only around a quarter of it, trailing away into indistinct fuzziness, was visible to her roving eye, as it tried to acquire some sort of hold on the seemingly everlasting band of white, divided from the hull below by a thick, shining strip of black paint, covering at least two rows of portholes on the hull and seemed to have been edged in polished brass. A tall mast stabbed upward from the deck, forward of what Ayemma presumed to be the bridge, from which, if she craned her neck, she could pick out the sprouting forms of mysterious antennae; she followed one of the tense cables that helped to secure it (though why such a contrivance should be necessary in space, a place largely free of high seas, she could not imagine), and found herself glancing at the ship’s prow, and finally discovered the name of the vessel (for her tickets had simply been booked for departure with this line, at that time; only rarely did the CAMM bother with such niceties as informing its employees of a ship’s name): Mercury, spelled out in gold letters, each at least twice the height of a man, crowning the black region of the ship’s bows, glittering proudly against the stars, disappearing from sight as she finally put her foot over the threshold and entered the ship herself. Before she could really think about anything very much, she was within a spacious, exquisitely-decorated lounge-cum-entrance-hall, hung with an eclectic variety of portraits, lined by pleasantly neutral paint, and smelling overwhelmingly of coffee and tobacco; and before she could even begin to find her way, among the throng of people, to her cabin, her arm was grasped from behind. The young porter who had grabbed her, though he acted with the best of intentions, had no idea how fortunate he was to avoid both a gasp of shock, and a swinging hit to the midriff that would certainly not have been the highlight of his day.

“Er… pardon me, ma’am; Miss Susukhi?” The lad, not more than eighteen or so, beardless and nervy, peered from behind thin-rimmed spectacles, eager to help and terrified of failing to. Ayemma calmed herself a little, and raised a particularly well-plucked eyebrow.

“Yes; who are you?”

The boy coughed, wide-eyed. “Junior Porter Bell, Ma’am.” His eyes snapped to Ayemma’s case and back, twitching. “Captain’s orders, ma’am; I’m to escort you to your cabin.” He proffered a hand, still largely short of hairs on its back, and gave her his best company smile. “May I take your case?”

Ayemma nodded, running her tongue into her cheek and stifling the urge to laugh at the lad’s discomfiture, whatever its cause. “By all means. Lead the way, Mr. Bell!”

“Ma’am!” Bell almost stood to attention, then remembered that he was meant to be taking her case and abruptly stopped the movement, grasping it from her with a hand that tried to be surer than it was, and was immensely relieved to find the case was much lighter than it looked. “By the way, ma’am: Captain Horten has pleasure in welcoming you aboard His Imperial Oyadan Majesty’s Mail Ship Mercury."

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Bell; I think I shall enjoy my trip,” Ayemma replied, gracefully, as they set off down the winding mess of corridors and yet more lifts that would bring her to her quarters. It was to her credit that, over the next days, she would not think of the Mercury as “the Hg” more than a dozen times.

*****

By the time Ayemma had unpacked her clothes, Mercury was awaiting her orders, the ship’s very form trembling slightly, and filled with contained, restless energy. On her bridge, looking out over the tapering bows and their collection of fittings, Captain Horten kept a careful eye on his men. Most were old hands, and knew both their work and their ship superbly; he could trust them all, from the Helmsman to the Navigation Officer, the Second Officer (who was Acting Officer of the Lookouts, and whose work was, along with his three men, to keep a close watch on the vessel’s myriad sensor arrays for any signs of oncoming trouble), from the Chief Engineer in his muggy machinery spaces below to the Chief Pursers, Cooks and Porters. Only some of the younger lads weighed on his mind; but fortunately, that was not solely his weight to bear, for each of the six officers below the Captain had a specific set of duties, to which he was expected to attend. Theirs was the direct burden; he was, although at the head of the ship, spared the three-ring circus of trying to control everything directly, a task too straining for men, even if computers thought it perfectly possible.

Around Horten’s stationary form, voices rang. Hatches were sealed; cargo was stowed and secured; all compartments and all decks reported conditions normal and ready for departure; ship ready for sea, Captain. That was his cue. With a smile on his stubbly face – for the escape from land was always the greatest moment, in any voyage – Horten turned to his Chief Officer, who, like he, was watching all of his subordinates as they went about their duties. Unlike Horten, however, Chief Officer Ramsay was watching, often enough, literally; his console was crowded with video links, as well as with a map, divided by hundreds of lines, showing the condition of each compartment; all glowed a bright, warm, friendly green.

“Mr. Ramsay!”

Ramsay stood swiftly, saluting. “Captain!”

“You know what I’m about to say, Mr. Ramsay,” Horten replied harshly, making his voice grate as far as he could despite a lifetime’s abstinence from the things that usually give a man a gravely timbre. “Take her to sea! Let’s let her go, first; and then let’s let her have her head again.”

Ramsay broke into a broad, and quickly suppressed, grin. “Aye, sir!”

Watched by many dozens of well-wishers from behind the safety of their shielded, armoured glass, Mercury cast off her mooring lines, great magnetic snakes that had held her, bound her to the pier for the past two weeks and a half. As tugs fussed around the great ship, she slowly turned her vast bulk toward the galaxy her people had long ago sought to abandon, her great engines, arranged in a huge sextuple rectangle astern, giving occasional spurts at minimum power to speed her on her way. Still the job took fifteen minutes, and that was, for such a liner, a remarkably quick turn; Horten made sure to have “Many thanks for your swift service” signalled to the tugs, one of which piped up a cheerful, “you’re welcome; best of luck” in reply. The job was simple, to be sure, but it had been done quickly and well, and Horten knew that such men seldom received much appreciation.

The tugs cast away, at last, and Mercury seemed transformed, freed from the shackles of land in any form. Now her mighty engines could finally get into their stride, and propel her toward her distant destination: Navarre. On her glimmering, perfect, pearl-white bridge, Chief Officer Ramsay’s heart swelled a little. Laying his hand on the engine-room telegraph – an ancient arrangement, preserved for tradition’s sake as much as any practicality – he pushed the three lustrous brass indicators forward, all the way forward, straight into “EA II” – Engines Ahead Full. Even on the bridge, the change was apparent within moments; for below them, a mile away, the engineers had enacted the order, even as the bells indicating their acknowledgement rang out their merry trills, opening the ship’s many reactors up towards 75 per cent, sending a roaring jet of energy, heat and light, thundering from her retro rockets, accelerating her with what seemed at first disappointing slowness. It was only after a few moments that the eye and body realised how fast the millions of tonnes of machine around them was moving, or felt the slow building of vibration as Mercury, joyously surging in her element once more, lived up to her old and illustrious name.

[Oyada]

To her intense surprise, Ayemma had been rudely awakened from the soundest of slumbers; the fact of having been awoken was unexpected enough, but sleeping soundly, cocooned in the intimacy of her throbbing steel home, was unprecedented after so short a period to accustom herself to the vagaries, the unique creaks and groans and hums of a vessel. She had been tired, far more tired than she ought to have been; her work had taught her plenty about the value of sleep, and she was diligent in maintaining it. Fatigue caused mistakes, and mistakes caused anything from irritations to catastrophes; mostly, given her work, Ayemma could count on the results being slanted toward the latter end of the spectrum of possibilities. For a moment, she entertained the thought that the drinks – non-alcoholic, naturally – she had ordered, which now sat empty on her bedside table, beneath a tall and surprisingly Victorian table light, had been doctored, but dismissed it in a flash as her knowledge and training simply eliminated the possibility from serious consideration. She rubbed her forehead, still blearily feeling her way into consciousness, and donned the fluffy dressing-gown that the liner’s owners had kindly provided to cover her modesty. No ill-effects, no strange tastes or sensations, no obvious theft from, or of, her carefully secured case; pacing barefoot across her cabin’s plush carpet, she satisfied herself quickly that the door was still locked, and would remain firmly so until she or a crewman declared otherwise. No, this was no overseas saboteur.

Ayemma sighed, and padded toward the bed, re-seating herself heavily and lying back as she flung off the comfortable gown, letting her mind sink into calm in imitation of her body’s swift descent into the soft bedclothes. Focus, focus, focus. Her instructors would have been most unimpressed by the waywardness of her thoughts, even accounting for her sudden return to consciousness; the realisation made her wish for her sword, however incongruous it might be in such luxuriant decadence. Ayemma smiled wryly, to nobody at all, as she cast another appreciative glance around the cabin; though small, it was well-appointed, offering every creature comfort. White-clothed bed, deep and soft and superbly soporific, matched by white-painted walls, a white-curtained porthole; gleaming, probably hand-buffed, mahogany-alike table; and beyond a small door, set next to that for the wardrobe, a surprisingly well-made en-suite. The sink was even real porcelain, the bath smoothly enamelled, the shine on the gleaming chromed taps and fittings undimmed by years of service. Roomy, yet compact; basic, yet exceedingly finely appointed. Ayemma knew enough to know that whoever had designed the liner’s cabins had known their job. Unfortunately, their job didn’t consist of creating a place in which she might clear her mind and focus, and her blade was an excellent means of doing so, in even the most improper of surroundings. Yet, even if she had been able to take the long weapon with her – which she most certainly could not; no biologist she had ever seen wandered around with a twenty-four inch sword protruding prominently from beneath a lab coat – it would seem, even to her mind, more than a little silly to practice her forms in such a place. And besides, it would probably only end with her skewering the bed, or accidentally cutting down the curtains. But still, Ayemma rolled her eyes in frustration, only semi-mocking; right now, she needed the focus that her discipline’s unique combination provided. Mental presence and total focus on the task of defeating the enemy, wherever they came from, in tandem with the wonderful, mind-quenching rush of hormonal joy that physical strength and precision brought, had proven better for her than any form of meditation under the sun; she had never, curiously, reflected on the similarities between the two, at least not in any serious fashion.

Ayemma let herself smirk again; at last, she was concentrating. She was concentrating on the wrong thing, and that wasn’t really much help, but it was better than nothing. Possibly.

Air hissed through her clenching teeth. “Oh, this is ridiculous.” Decisively levering herself free of the bed’s still hugely appealing embrace, she began to do what she could in the way of forcing herself to direct her mental energies. Unhurriedly, deliberately, she took her place in the middle of the room (which, really, wasn’t that far from any of its walls), lowering herself onto her knees and finding that her bare legs sank into the carpet’s pile a good quarter of an inch, warming nicely on the under-floor heating. Her hands – surprisingly cold, despite the ample heating’s ability to ensure she needed to wear only a flimsy, particularly comfortable purple nightdress – resting on her thighs, her eyes closed, she began the regular, common enough breathing exercises she had been conscientiously performing since her adolescence, slowing her respiration, expanding her lungs – which she was irritably aware that she used very little, most of the time – and generally working herself into a position of surprising serenity, as Mercury slowed, gradually and inexorably, around her; she felt the changing note of the ship’s vibration through her knees and toes, ignoring and dismissing it with as much force as her attempt to calm her brain would permit, unaware of its import and uninterested in being made aware of it. It was working; she could feel it, an indescribable, untraceable sensation, a great curtain of tranquillity, dignified and peaceful, rolling over her, slowly and inexorably, slowly permitting her mind to focus. The steady beat of the engines, like the distracting tick of the wall clock (also white, unsurprisingly), faded; time was already beginning to mean less to her, which was almost a shame; she was managing the entire process in mere minutes. Had anyone been there to watch her, they would (aside from probably being quite embarrassed) have had to admit that this woman’s ability to control, almost to sedate, herself, was most impressive.

Without warning, and without any even remote provocation, Ayemma’s frame clenched. Her arms jerked with blurring swiftness down to her left hip, her right hand instantaneously flying smoothly away, to become outstretched almost directly from her shoulder. In less time than it would take our imaginary spectator to explain his (or her, or its) astonishment, she had parried the first blow with the flat of her blade. Within perhaps one and a half seconds, Ayemma had both hands on her mental weapon; within two seconds, she was already half-way through a cutting stroke, descending at manic speed to her left, almost as if to meet her outstretched leg at the knee. A split-second later, her slim form was standing, left foot slipping backward under perfect control while her right bore the weight, the blade twisting at her arms’ command, its ferociously sharp edge turned back to her attacker; another cut, slicing in from her left at a near-horizontal line near neck level, as she moved her weight back a little, led swiftly into the final blow, a simple downward strike into her enemy’s skull, augmented by a single step forward to finish the job. The entire business was over in under ten seconds. Her eyes still tight shut, she pulled part of her nightdress toward her blade, running the flat of the sword along it, her mind visualising its glinting, barbarically beauteous form as her enemy’s blood drained onto her clothes. With a blissful sigh, almost a gasp, Ayemma replaced the weapon in its imagined scabbard, and beamed broadly. Her head was clear, her mind clean, her thoughts once more directed to a purpose. That was the thing about the sword, she reflected as she pulled off the nightdress and began donning something more suitable for the outside world; it was a thing of beauty, and to kill with it was unalloyed, liberating, fulfilling pleasure itself, even in the mind’s eye.

By the time Ayemma was dressed, Mercury’s graceful form had slowed yet further, in preparation for her anticipated exit from faster-than-light and the weird universe in which she now floated, unnaturally darkened.

*****

“Three-three-eight-six, HIOMMS Mercury, please confirm flight plan and state load. Please ensure all hazardous or dangerous cargo has been stored and secured correctly.”

“3386 Mercury to Navarre Control; confirmed, all cargoes stowed and secure, all conditions reported normal, ready to dock, over.”

Captain Horten normally enjoyed docking nearly as much as he enjoyed leaving port, but the cloud of Machiavelli still hung above his head. He had already put on his dress uniform, and for the punters, of course, he would be white and happy, all smiles and good cheer. He would hide what he had just seen, and its effect; he would hide, too, what he must do. Horten was a compassionate man, a seaman through and through, and his offer of aid, surprising as it might have been to the watching foreigners to see it come from an Oyadan ship, had been honest; he doubted not for one moment that he and his crew would have done everything in their power to save the lives of any poor wretches who had managed to survive the catastrophe that had overtaken the nameless ship whose demise they had observed. But he was also an Oyadan, and Captain of an Oyadan ship; as such, it was his duty to report unusual, or even interesting, happenings to the Navy. Indeed, it was his duty, as soon as he had finished meeting and greeting, hand-shaking and kissing, to inform the Navy of what he had seen. Sadness still hanging from his spirit, he had carefully drafted his message; without a single mention of the possibility that it might be significant, he had already ensured the observation of the inevitable, and almost equally dreadful, recovery operations. It was not the seamen who saddened him; the Navy men, too, would doubtless feel the melancholy that still afflicted him, for they would observe the second act of the play. But the Fifth Directorate would merely greet it as an opportunity to learn more about yet another potential foe; it was a sorry world, indeed, in which death was merely an opportunity for another to profit. At length, the radio responded, somewhat tetchily:

"Clearance granted, please proceed to berth Alpha Four at Atlantis platform."

Mercury docked.

*****

Unnoticed by Captain, and largely ignored by crew, Ayemma Susukhi made her way to the gangway where she had entered, already casting a friendly, soft white light on the dark carpet of the ship’s entrance hall. Case in hand, she glanced around her momentarily, uncertain of how best to go about her entrance to her test site.

Well, if it’s a test site, surely I should be professional?

With that, Ayemma put on a businesslike smile to match her businesslike pinstriped skirt and jacket, and walked; past the porters, past the off-duty officers, past the queues of people without a clue of where to go or what to do, past the vending machines offering bizarre confections and drinks and… things, past the scanners that, she was sure, were working their way up and down every inch, square and cubic, of her body in search of threats, and towards what seemed to be a useful thing: namely, a man in a uniform, behind what seemed to be a desk. Familiarity was a wonderful thing, Ayemma decided, as she presented herself at his (bizarrely free) tabernacle and gave him her best “I’m only a cute little foreign girl!” act.

“Hello! I’m sorry to trouble you, er, sir, but… I’m looking for… a way to get to this facility. It’s a fertility clinic, I’m afraid I’m terrible with names; what’s it called, please?” Speaking the lie, she proffered the card Berwick had dispensed to her, a mere week before, and did her best to appear innocent and bookish. In retrospect, it really was a good thing she couldn’t bring the sword.

OOC: This poest contains a reference to another poest, with which it dovetails, and which can be found here.

[The Freethinkers]

“Alright people, listen up!” Bywater’s roar, for there was no other word to describe the sound, filled the air. A soldiers’ soldier, so the saying went, Bywater was listened to attentively by the rank and file officers that stood around him. He was big normally, in his BDUs and body armour he was of almost mythical stature, and his speech was the short, clear, powerful tone of a man who meant what he said. Even in the heat of the midday desert soon, he seemed as a cool and relaxed as if resting on the riviera. Around him, in the shade of various parked vehicles and field tents, the leaders of the speartips of the Freestian and Midlonian armies were watching with growing anticipation.

“Operation Falling Star, this year’s big Theatex, we’ve tracked four major Ork warbands over an area the size of the Trembok. With our Midlonian friends,” he gestured to the khaki cloaked humans in the crowd, noted by their smaller stature but who gave a rousing cheer in response. “We are going out to kick Ork arse. Full works, ladies and gentlemen, tacnukes, orbital bombardment, 24/7 air support and enough artillery to give God a migraine, this is gonna be a good one.”

“Now, I would love to say safety was paramount.” Some of the older ghouls grinned, they had heard the joke before. “But this is the Commonwealth, and we’re here to learn soldiering. You want safe? You stick to Navarrian whorehouses and touch rugby. Here, and now, we’re going to teach you and your men how to look death in the eye and then tear the fucker’s balls off.” Roars of appreciation. Nice bit of savage imagery there. “People will get hurt. As officers your task is to ensure that whatever sacrifices are made only when necessity dictates them. Be bold, aggressive, strong and inspiring. Remember that indecision is a decision, remember that your men will follow you to hell so long as you believe in them and carry them through.”

Generic stuff, but the boom of his voice and the conviction of his words seemed to hammer the point home. “You’re the best in the universe at what you do. Time to prove it. Happy hunting men. I’ll see you all for beers in a few weeks time!” Short and to the point. Mace looked across at Oakland, who was turning to face her himself in the rising dust as the crowd dispersed back to their respective units around them.

“Easy enough.” She smiled, he returned the gesture, the remains of his jaw emulating the gesture in a crude manner. “You look like christmas came early and brought you a sackful of dip and porno.”

“Four weeks of nothing but me, my men, my knife and enough Orks to shake a giant fucking stick at. Heaven, Mace, thats what that sounds like.”

“Your a wierd one, Colonel, all your breed are.” Mace smiled in a joking manner. She meant it though, and she pondered how much it applied to her own background as well. This place made strange things of some people, something primeval and brutal, humanity, sapient beings as their rawest, most primitive instincts and reflexes brought to the fore. It was the only way to survive out here.

[The Freethinkers]

Government House, Navarre

Sarah sat back at her desk, taking a sip of coffee and rubbing her eyes slightly. The position of the office meant a near perpetual bathing in sunlight, refreshing at sometimes, but with a slowly building migraine it did little to make her feel any better. The coffee, now cooling, felt okay but flavourless, and the immoveable mound of paperwork (in this day and age why nothing couldn’t be computerised was a mystery in and off itself) sat squarely in front of her.

The door thudded with a gentle knock.

"Hello Abha." Farahind said curtly. Her tone was professional but entirely clinical. The door opened and a trail of light footsteps walked cautiously up to the desk. Only when they paused did the ghoul look up, pen in hand.

“May I?” Abha kept her nerve, sounding far more confident than she felt. She indicated the chair opposite. Farahind nodded curtly and turned her attention to a file resting on her lap.

"I've come to..." Amris paused, biting her lip. The pair's last private moment together had ended far from ideally. "...I was about to say explain something, but I want to do something more than that." Sarah looked at her silently, still not taking the file in her lap away from herself. "I heard that you..." Abha hesitated.

"Yes?" The word clung to air.

"You were concerned that I was conspiring against you.” No answer, and in the lack of conversation the human slowly gave way, to a point. "You're worried about him."

"Yes." Sarah replied bluntly. “Did you not expect me to be?” The air of truce seemed to thin, but Abha kept calm, any signs of terror firmly below the surface. She had learnt well.

“Not really, but its not as if its anything other than personal.”

“And that’s meant to reassure me.” Farahind snapped back, but it was a fatigued annoyance rather than genuine anger. “I don’t get that leeway, I don’t see why you should.”

"You're jealous?" It hadn't exactly been the answer Abha meant to give out. The file in Farahind’s lap fell to the floor. But there was nothing else, no angry outburst or leap across the table. Instead the Prime Minister seemed to withdraw within herself, hunching her shoulders.

Abha felt something new. An odd connection, and pity, almost, as is the loss of her energy had left Farahind without the shields she normally carried.

“Sorry.” The Benarbor representative finally offered, looking down herself. Whatever hatred had been there suddenly felt awkward and spiteful. Both women looked back up at each other, and, very briefly, both finally acknowledged each other properly.
“I’m sorry Abha. And not just the physical…gah. I just…”

Abha nodded. “This would be better done when you are less tired. But thanks.”

"Take care." Sarah turned her seat round to face the window again, looking out over the bay. Her hearing picked up the closing of the door and slowly, pensive steps away from the office. "Everyone gets a second chance, no one a third." She took a sip of water and watched several of the freighters move in her view, tens of miles away, like some small tropical fish trapped in a tank framed by the office's walls. It was oddly therapeutic, the latent power of the scene, a moving mass of steel and flesh coordinated in a beautiful ballet of controlled movement. It was home, it was what defined this place. But it seemed now oddly foreign.

***************

Cardinal Place, Residence of the Prime Minister

The lights were dim now. Farahind hadn't been bothered to turn the lights on when the sun had dipped and now sat in a mixture of twilight and the glare of her various monitors and displays. Reports filed past her eyes, but she was no longer really reading the documents fully. She gave a quiet yawn and pondered the day's events even as she drifted from reading and began to close her eyes. A blanket, Midlonian wool, covered her lap. Meetings and briefings had flashed by, and for once she had been able to get home early, still light even.

Home now was a much grander affair that it had been. Like all public buildings in the Commonwealth, Cardinal Place was a vast, airy, neo-gothic stroke classical affair that soared above mere mortals and sought to remind everyone who entered the importance of the institution it housed and to remind the occupier of the importance of their duty to the state over their own comforts.

As was intended, it made Farahind feel small. In truth she had time to move her stuff into a quarter of the rooms and even then had still not unpacked in many of them. The rest were mostly old state bedrooms and the like, there for use if needed but otherwise ignored. A token staff kept the place clean, but any elected official was lucky to get anyone decent on their expenses. Even in her study several cardboard boxes were left for another, quieter day.

The ghoul woke with a start as the door to the study rasped loudly. An instinct struck Farahind’s body even before her mind reacted, jolting awake and upright. A familiar figure sauntered up before her.

"Stephen." She gave a smooth half smile, but her tired eyes belied her true fatigue. The pile of documents and folders had diminished somewhat, though another load had landed in the inbox from today. She kicked back slightly and gestured to a couch, but the massive Ghoul Marshal took the opposite seat at her desk. She could barely raise a smile, but she was glad he was here. He produced a bottle of Midlonian Malt and two glasses without a word, and poured generous helpings.

The ghouls shared a drink in silence.

"I heard your new best friend popped over." Bywater offered after finishing his glass in one gulp.

“Yeah…she came to…apologies without actually apologising. But whatever, she did make me think about what I’m doing. I think I’m going insane. I can’t believe what I asked you to do to keep a tab on her.”

"I think you were a little over the top, to be honest." Bywater forwarded a hand. "I like both of you, speaking personally. I think that she and you are, however, locked on clashing because each of you now sees the other as the enemy, and it’s a shitty mindset to get into. You’re both just politicians representing constituencies, and it would do well to remember you both are good at your jobs.”

“Well, I’d rather she just shut up for a bit. I can’t do with being scared like that.” Sarah paused, biting her lip. “Am I going crazy?”

“If you can ask yourself that then I would say you’re still okay.”

“Its just…so much pressure, and so little time for my own…”

"Sarah, that relationship will always be of interest because as your partner you had a free choice in choosing him and people will draw conclusions from that choice as much as any other. He is a foreign national, and a powerful and influential one at that. Self pity is not you. For fucks sake you sound like a twilight heroine.”

"I can't help who I love alright." Sarah gave him a glance. "I'm getting tired of wrecking my personal life, of putting artificial barriers in place and still getting shit for it, from everyone. I'm not some fucking puppet but..." She sobbed, taking Bywater by surprise. The huge Marshall coughed awkwardly, before leaning forward slightly. "I just want to be left to get on with it."

"Sarah, you're the Prime Minister, you've got to be stronger than..."

"Than what? Steve, I've walked through hell many times before. I can find whatever strength I need. But this game is...its draining. The objectives keep changing, the circumstances that I'm meant to understand. I keep giving on everything, and I'm losing control. Of my party, of my cabinet, I don't know what to say to people any more. I feel like sharks are beginning to circle already."

"You are strong Sarah." Bywater responded, trying his best to sound authoritative. He opened his mouth to speak some more but stopped. "I can repeat that many times. I have seen you at your best, you can take this." The word lingered. "I know I'm repeating something you’ve heard countless times alright, but you are a Freestian, a Freestian ghoul, born and bred. You have infinite reserves, you just need to remember one step more.”

Sarah sighed again, longer and deeper, almost but not quite ignoring his speech. "I miss him. You know, I accept this path, and I accepted at that point what I would have to sacrifice in order to do the job I do. But I have no one otherwise. I think thats part of why I like him. Hykar, I mean..." She put her head in her hands, beautiful blond locks cascaded around. "He has a similar situation, alone and pulled in many directions. He understands, and he sees what I see. And I can't have that as much as I need it. I can't get rid of my worries and my fears on his shoulder. My bed is lonely, my home is lonely. I sit and wait and just for once I want him to be there when I get in and say its fine and its okay but I can't have that."

Stephen looked at her, trying to swallow a sense of pity, it wasn't what she deserved to have him patronise her. "You're not alone."

"Steve..." Sarah finally looked up. "Cliché that it is, its lonely in this job. Normally its down to others simply not having the weight on their shoulders, but I, I do have someone who understands but who just can’t be there."

"Yeah..." A sympathetic hand joined one of hers, Farahind letting her slender fingers be enveloped in his massive, scarred palms. They were strong though, fresh, tough, like hers used to be a long time ago. Where had the energy gone? “You know, to be fair, and I think it has to be said. You do need perspective on this. You’re still young for your breed, you’re the leader of a free and prosperous country, still quite respected in a system that accentuates the negative in every possible way. It was your choice, after all to enter this path and if the worse you have to face is distance, well…”

“I know, I’m a stupid selfish cow.” Sarah laughed half-heartedly.

“Sarah. You’re a Freestian soldier. You don’t know selfish, and you wouldn’t be where you are today if you were stupid either.” Bywater offered, despairing slightly. “Here.” He poured another drink.

“I’m tired of other people being stupid then.” The Prime Minister tipped her glass in a mock toast.

“Its the problem of everyone who is committed and capable. Those of us who can pick up the slack of those who cannot. There are plenty who would kill for even a fraction of what you have right now.”

Sarah looked back with slightly reddened eyes. She withdrew her hand from the grip, seemingly sad to do so but with an air of inevitability as another source of comfort drifted away. A shake of blonde hair and she turned.

“My TVs on.” She said, slowly, as if something dawned on her. “Every night I switch it on for the noise but I can’t even remember the last thing I watched.”

“Its all shite these days.” Bywater offered, raising a smile. “To be fair its not as if you’re relationship is on every evening bulletin or anything.”

Sarah laughed, as heartily as she could, and finished the glass again.

[The Ctan]

Telissat maintained its course and speed in the empty vastness of the Argo Abyss, a region of shrouded space five hundred light years long containing dozens of star systems within its embracing darkness, where over millions of years an enormous interstellar dust cloud had drifted around the mature stars of another region. Its current deployment to this remote place was to suppress the piratical Hashedi Clans who used this area as their base of operations.

While it did this part of its mind was across the galaxy on another world of white sands and the ancient ruins of the Necrontyr civilisation. Watching Abha Amris, well, suffer. The Freestian outback was hot; this was a stage worse, a desolation of sand entirely without life or surface water, utterly and bleakly uninhabitable.

The silver shape of one of its smaller avatars, a few inches of metal that cruised about fifty feet overhead, invisible against the pitiless light all around from the system’s dying, bloated stars. The politician was doing what much of her electorate would probably like to see her do, suffering.

The route she’d been given, along with the other (former) Freestians present, was all downhill, and she was at least dressed practically, it had seen to that.

From its overhead vantage point Telissat’s avatar could see the other Freestians, Arianrian’s group, completing their wider circuit, and making rather better time than Abha even with that disadvantage. No matter. The point wasn't after all for Abha to win, it was to challenge her.

__ __ __

Asaid drew her sword in a single gesture that made it flicker from its sheath the misty piece of highest quality living metal shimmering as it moved, ensuring that it did not catch the light. Her two assistants moved with practised cat-like grace, not unlike her own, sleek forms covered in chameleon-skin that blended with the jungle floor around them.

Their own blades, less elaborate but still enormously lethal, slivers of fractal-edged crystal, rather than phase swords, these were covered in an oil that cloaked them into a light-absorbing cherry colour, held away from the enemy.

The pair moved and dropped to the floor, closing their eyes and drawing near to the small clearing with its dilapidated building. In her camouflage Asaid slunk along a little way behind, a soft-spoken word, a single command sent her minions forwards.

They were like children to her, they had been in a way children, for she had given them back their childhood. She had bought both women as warrior slaves from the rather dark nation of Aliquantus, of the seventy persons she had liberated (not to mention the ‘human targets’ they had come with) only Alimaera and Sorille were still with her, choosing to (against her strenuous discouragement) follow her own profession.

This was in the fifty years of training them, the first time they had been on such a mission to confront the enemies spawned by the warp. The long deserted post was surrounded by what one would think was a normal security fence. Save for the fact that each was surmounted by little yellow-white objects; skulls.

She watched the pair ignore this and silently pass over the electrified fence, hands out-stretched before them. One of the men inside stepped out as the two approached and they stopped, their camouflage blending them almost invisibly, even to Asaid, against the wall and floor.

The Freestian was going to patrol, probably with more of a mind to keep the wasps off the ill-conceived but enormously sturdy structure. She watched as they disappeared within, and decided that maybe they weren’t so grown up they couldn’t use a helping hand.

She whisper-walked toward the fence, raising her hand toward the human’s neck, one bejewelled ring triggering and firing a slim mini-dart impregnated with the toxins of one of the most potent local flowers. He collapsed in almost instant paralysis, as it buried itself in the back of his neck and he fell. Her sword slipped through the fence, parting it and stabbing through his back.

Up close she could see the vile Khornate images and symbols tattooed into the man’s flesh where it was visible.

Looking up, Asaid could see and hear her young women going to work. Her heart swelled with pride.

She harboured no specific contempt or resentment for the Freestian government, she had seen far worse in her original home after all. It was unfortunate that these men had been infested and thus needed this release from their madness. But it was an act of mercy.

When they were done here, they would call in a group of necrons and atomise the remains, then burn the site utterly before the next rain to add a plausible seeming cause for the building having vanished. It would be as though this murder-gang had never existed in the first place.

__ __ __

The chamber they were in was one that had not been used in centuries, a cool underground hall where a human avatar of Telissat caressed his lover’s stripped body as he guided her through the portal. She wasn’t really able to see it, as she was blindfolded, along with having her hands bound behind her back, the rather comfortable metal of her bonds pinning her wrists close behind her.

The only way she could tell the difference was that the air became a little cooler as she was transported aboard Telissat. Telissat pulled her off her feet almost as soon as she was aboard, overwhelming her with a passionate kiss and pressing her against a soft couch as his avatar straddled her.

"Tired?" he asked, massaging her shoulders and kneading her muscles lightly.

"In ways you can't even imagine," she said, not just referring to the physical exhaustion of her more recent experience.

"Good," he said, "it will all be worthwhile in the end," he said with calm self-assurance.

"And how do you know that?" she asked wearily.

"Because, dear Abha," he said, caressing her tired legs, gently laying one up across his chest, in the air, caressing and expertly rubbing her calf, his touch so delicately precise that few 'living' beings could match it, "I know everything. I'll tell you later," he said, wrapping her leg around his waist now and leaning down to kiss her tenderly.

[Midlonia]

Theatrex

"...and this unit can fire a shell with pin point accuracy to a range of 22 miles." The artillery captain droned on as a figure, stood next to him wearing a panama hat to keep the sun off of his face, another couple of figures nearby were watching the captain and everything around him. "We're firing to help the 12th Anglians who are around 5 miles that way. Their Edward company is over there, in our rest and mess tent." He pointed briefly. "We can watch a firepower display from the bunker with the other senior staff, this way please your highness." The Captain motioned with one arm across to a small desert bunker well dug in where a gaggle of senior staff were already waiting.

Henry Hykar Svard the Second was very, very bored. To be this close to 'the action' again and unable to go near it annoyed him immensly, meeting the troops was great and all but he couldn't actually meet the buggers because Captain McBoring was showing him how the cannons work (he knew how to work them too, he had been an artillery man for a short while with the Mainland Corps after his little adventure with Sarah Farahind in the Freestian Wilderness.

As the little group trooped into the bunker Henry positioned himself near the back as he studied the map and it's reference points quickly. His keen eye scanning it and taking in local contours, rock formations and even a couple of follies nearby.

As the display got under way of a heavy artillery bombardment he slowly inched his way towards the door. Eventually slipping out and moving quickly across to the mess tent. The flap came down immediately behind him as a Sergeant, a big man probably part Midlonian-Ghoul, named Billings grinned at him.

"Managed to get it all in your size sir." Billings said as he pointed to a small canvas area erected by the troops near to one of the corners was a pair of ground sheets and tent material ready for him to change into. "Got your Cleaver with you, your highness?"

"Never leave home without it." Henry grinned as he patted his flank where the weapon was held.

"Gotta say, you're bloody mental." Billings said as he took the King's hat and then his light overcoat. "I nearly didn't belive the bloody message you sent until you fucking well pitched up."

"What can I say? Something about this country does it to you Billings. Gotta just grab every opportunity and just go for it."

"You really take a juvie Sand Dragon out with it?" A private piped up before the glare from his comrades quietened him.

"Yep." Henry replied cheerily as he threw the young Private his panama hat and was already removing his shirt as he stepped behind the screen. Stepping back briefly he pointed to the long scar which ran down his side. "That's where the bastard got me too." He said tapping the skin gently before he slipped behind the cover again, throwing the trousers over he seemed to appear and dissapear, a shock of red hair briefly bouncing up and down as he pulled on the desert kahkis. Finally buttoning on his bowl helmet he stepped back from the canvas area and then pointed to the Helmet. "Who wrote this?"

His Royal Arseness had been crudely written on the helmet in a black marker pen.

"I did, fuck the Monarchy!" A brave lone voice said from the back of the room.

The mug smacked the figure in the face rather hard, causing the offending person's nose to bleed profusely.

"Fuck you too." Henry quipped as he took the MA-80 rifle offered to him and checked it. Shoving the Kesswig pistol into it's holster and the necessary ammunition he tapped with his bayonet the three water canteens he had on his belt, each of them thunked weightily. Finally he pulled the small kerchief up to hide his distinctive red beard, the sunglasses finally meant he seemed more anonymous than one would think.

The hiss of sand being moved and displaced air cut through any further movements and motions. A quick tap of a horn signified that his ride was with him already. A squad aboard the vehicle waiting for him they looked as the figure ran quickly over and leapt up another Sergeant clasped his hand, grinned widely and pulled him aboard the wide flat bed of the hover-truck.

"Welcome aboard White Rook." The man said with a laugh. His name tag said his name was Allsop.

"Oh, I don't get the King chess piece?" Henry said as the vehicle moved away swiftly. He looked back to see a number of brass and his two handlers flooding out of the bunker looking around for him. "Well they were quicker than I thought."

"Reckon you'd get enough time to get your mags off before they work out where you are." Allsop said with a grin. "Loadsa time."

-----------------

Frontline, Theatrex

The truck stopped briefly, resting on the ground as the squad piled off, bullets snapped and whipped across the cab roof and stuck one of the window panes, cracking it. Grabbing his rifle and knocking the safety off he fired off a few shots before he jumped down into a trench that had already been established, complete with firing line. Allsop piled in behind him.

"White Rook's here!" He yelped out. "White Rook's here!"

A captain ducked from the firing line and then dropped down into the bottom of the trench itself. "Welcome to the front line your...." He frowned and looked at the helmet. "Arseness?"

"Don't ask." Henry said as he removed the sunglasses and the kerchief. "What's the situation then Captain?"

"Fucking brilliant sir, best TheatreX I've been on to date. One Ork warband reaching us already and an even fucking bigger one coming right for us." The Captain said with a grin. "You're going to damn well love it, now I need you over there," He said pointing to a spot a few yards away where there was an obvious hole in the sandbags. "Firing spot's empty, stray round clipped one of my Privates, got it?"

"Got it." Henry said as he jumped up onto the firing spot and looked for the slight gap in the sandbags. Peering carefully through it he could already see a group of Orks making their way up the slight slope, firing wildly with their crude machine guns and hideous teeth. Standing up fully he rested his rifle on the sandbag and immediately began to fire.

The clip soon ran dry and the small group of orks had been cut down, he counted three kills for definite, with the rest going to others. Two at least to the machine gun a few spots down from him. Punching the clip button with his finger he slid a new one in. And felt the whole rifle shake a little as he allowed the firing pin to snap forward.

Grinning he lined up the next group that was trying to assault their position. A ragged shout of "Warghband!" went up from a radio near him from an OP up a slightly higher ridge saw some look back up before returning to their spots and firing away. He soon saw why the OP had called out the warning. The thin line couldn't have been more than 6-800 men in all.

Around 4,000 or more orks complete with tanks and other vehicles was cresting a ridge about 5 miles away.

"Fucking brilliant!" The Captain yelled out with an even bigger grin on his face. "Crack out the reserve boxes of ammo boys and girls!"

A couple of the resting soldiers pulled up some flaps from the rear wall of the trench revealing boxes of grenades and magazines for the rifles.

Hery grinned, for the first time in a while he felt truly and utterly alive, being here, in a major fight, bad odds. It all reminded him of that rather long two weeks he had spent with even worse odds.

Suddenly blasting across the position was a single jet. It flew low and fast, twitching back and forth when tracer rounds soared up into the sky from it. Finally a single missile detached and Henry already knew what was coming and was already swearing.

The missile ignighted as it accelerated to 430mph. The Fighter pushed it's afterburners on and turned so sharply that it was climbing vertically as it broke the sound barrier.

The power of the sun in the palm of one's hand.

That had been a phrase Henry had heard once and immediately turned away, ducking down and covering his eyes with his arm. Every soldier nearby did the same thing.

The missile arched downwards gently, finally accelerating again to 523mph. It made contact with the ground.

23KT of nuclear material exploded, forming a perfect mushroom cloud just a few seconds after the flash. The shockwave hit the position of the 12th Angliand around 3 seconds after the flash. The sand kicked up, creating a small-scale sandstorm as 4,000 or more orks were obliterated within a split of a second.

The small vehicle bounced slightly on the sand dune and slid to a stop in the middle of the sandstorm now battering the 12ths position.

Screaming, swearing and having thrown his helmet down the two MIRA5 Agents found the King of The Greater Kingdom of Midlonia around 20 yards from the firing position, shouting about unfair paranoid brass wearing bastards. When they reached him, he calmed down and trudged back with them. He gave his apologies to the Captain of the company he had fought with. As he sat onto the vehicle he heard Allsop roaring out "Three Cheers for The King! Hip hip!"

800 voices roared back "Hooray!"

-----------

Cardinal Place, 12 hours later

Henry had been dropped off by a plain Freestian Government Service car. Still covered in the sand from the blast but now mostly back into his civillian clothing, all bar the helmet he had been given, the words "His Royal Arseness" still emblazed upon it. He grinned at it and placed it on a small table in a corner of the lounge area. Ruffling his hair he felt the sand drop from it and drift in front of him. He sighed and checked with the cleaner, who reprimanded him for his dirtyness and directed him to one of the bathrooms.

He stripped, showered and changed into some of the clothing provided, a rather Freestian set of garments which were thin, breathable and mostly held together with a thin nylon chord. He didn't mind, it felt very comfortable. Wandering around the house he produced a slightly wan smile when he noticed the small cardboard boxes still filled with various belongins. The surprising thing about Sarah was that in Freestian culture, she was a clutter bug, the numerous boxes being a testimony to that. Pushing open one door he looked inside and found a large, tall window, complete with a desk and a rather comfortable looking office chair. He walked into the room itself, checking out the books on the shelf he noticed the numerous books on the Colonial era of the Freestian Commonwealth, a book of songs from the 1MW era, and the eight tomes of the 2MW as written by Gregory Huntington.

Reaching the desk he span the chair around and looked out at the view of Navarre's bay. Settling down into the chair he smiled a little. It truly was a wonderous place at the end of the day, and were his schedule not so busy he would be here as often as he could. He smiled as he watched a freighter make it's way magestically and slowly across the bay and heading steadily towards the open sea. He tilted the chair back a little and chose to watch Navarre at work as the sun settled and the city itself burst into lights in a myriad of colours.