Twenty-Two Days Before Avaman's Attack…
This is how the heroes come.
Padrax Minor is, as the name suggests, a minor planet located within the Esther Cloud in Supremacy space. A wasteland of craggy rocks and unstable footing, with only small patches of fertile land allowing the inhabitants limited self-sufficiency. High in the sky hangs Padrax Major, the planet's older brother -- and the root cause of the current disturbance.
Once upon a time, Padrax Minor was something of a mining hub in the area. The planet possessed large deposits of hadronite, an efficient starship fuel, and so settlers came from nearby city-worlds to take advantage of the bounty and achieve a simpler life. For nearly eighty years, the colonists enjoyed the fruits of their labour, the population growing with migration and years.
But, of course, all good things must come to an end. The hadronite ran dry.
They managed for a time. A great surveying era began, huge machines scanning the interior of the planet for whatever remnants of hadronite could be found. The traces were scraped away and sold piecemeal, with empty promises made for secondary shipments to buy time. When even the traces ran dry, those shipments were fulfilled with cheap disguised substitutes, imported from even less fortunate and less scrupulous areas.
This did not go unnoticed for long. The adept inspectors of the Body, the Supremacy's civilian government, soon discovered the deception -- and, as the military was one of the aggrieved parties, they responded to it harshly. Many members of the colony's administration were given lengthy sentences in prison, in such conditions that most did not survive. For the Lord Mayor himself, the middleman was cut out entirely, and he was shot in the back of the head.
Padrax Minor was plunged into even greater despair -- until a final sliver of hope exposed itself.
A final scan -- not of Padrax Minor itself, but of it's sibling in the sky -- revealed plentiful deposits of hadronite, enough to support the dying colony for centuries. They immediately petitioned the Body for permission to mine the planet, presenting a detailed and multi-step redemption plan for efficiently taking advantage of the resources and paying off their debts. For two months, the people of Padrax Minor prayed each night for success, for God to finally take pity on them.
That petition was denied.
The weakness of their prior conduct was such that the 'proper authorities' looked down on them with contempt. The contracts to Padrax Major were instead auctioned off to Halcyon Interstellar, a conglomerate that had earned the Body's gratitude for their contributions to border defense. To them, the entire situation amounted to nothing more than numbers on a spreadsheet.
As children starved in the streets of Padrax Minor, Halcyon Interstellar mined Padrax Major to such a degree that the bounty of eight-hundred years would be drained away in just ten. The people looked up with empty eyes as the lights of Halcyon spread over the planet above, devouring everything it had to offer. Hope faded into nothing…
…and desperation gave birth to extremism.
Laird Hadaran, the son of the executed Lord Mayor, brought together those in the colony with the greatest rage against the Supremacy. They formed a secret militia, hoarding weapons and resources for the day they knew would soon come, drawing together a final plan to save the colony. The people of Padrax Minor had already gone to the depths of hell in an effort to save their way of life: they had no qualms about going deeper.
Every ten years, the Minister of the Esther Cloud underwent a tour of his territories, a propaganda routine allowing him to win the favour of those he ruled. A selection of photo-ops in factories and mines, showing that he recognised the concerns of the common man. Prewritten, prefabricated speeches and sentiments, piped straight to his mouth from an earpiece.
Minister Gladly, and his family, would be coming to Padrax Minor for a day. Just enough time to make a little speech and head off to somewhere more important.
What happened next goes without saying. The rats came out of hiding, eliminating Gladly's security detail and taking the visitors hostage. The Opportunity Tower, an installation at the center of the colony, was taken over by the extremists and used to hold the hostages. Twelve stories with a flat roof, from which satellites could get a clear image of the people the terrorists had taken.
Gladly himself, his wife, their four children, and the Minister's brother-in-law, all bound and terrified. The brother-in-law was the least important, and so the least fortunate. He was thrown off the roof first to show that they were serious. The satellites got a clear view of the mess he made, along with the demands the terrorists had scrawled onto the roof.
Immediate transfer of Padrax Major mining rights from Halcyon Interstellar to the Padrax Minor government. For every day these demands were not fulfilled, they would throw another hostage off the roof.
Despite the audacity of their request, there was a good chance the demands would be granted. Ultratraditionalists within the Supremacy, such as the Tree of Might, felt that the extremists actions were a splendid show of strength -- one that redeemed their earlier cowardly tactics. Even Ascendant-General Toll, who was sympathetic to the traditionalist cause, may have argued in their favour.
The results of that will never be known, however, for fortune was not on Padrax Minor's side. By sheer coincidence, on the day they executed their plan, a certain ship was passing through the system. A ship like a great silver wheel, metal spokes converging on a central point.
It was called the Child Garden, and it was where the Supreme Heir -- the only daughter of the head of state -- resided. More relevantly, though, it was where her elite bodyguards and tutors -- the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir, or just the Seven Blades -- called their home. They took stock of the situation.
A hostage rescue against an entrenched force. A breaking of a siege. A battle.
A learning opportunity.
This is how the heroes come.
The sentries spot the landing pods first -- three shooting stars rapidly coming down, aimed at different locations within the colony. The civilians have been sealed into their homes, so there's little risk of them becoming involved, but Laird Hadaran understands the situation perfectly well.
They are being tested.
He takes stock of the situation from the monitor room, shaggy blonde hair hanging over his face. He's worked in starship manufacture, and so he has some idea of what he's looking at while the others look on in confusion. These landing pods are small and cheap, meant for individual troop landings -- when pushed, they can hold a maximum of two people. So they're dealing with six enemies at the most.
It doesn't take a genius to work out these won't be normal combatants. Special Officers, definitely, wielding their mysterious powers. They'll have orders to kill every single one of the extremists -- and they'll be touching down on Padrax Minor before the minute is out.
At this point, Laird Hadaran is presented with a choice.
Dispatching these Special Officers clearly means that the Supremacy is not willing to cede to Hadaran's demands. By all rights, he should now execute the hostages he has taken, to display the consequences of such a decision. But is that really the best way to proceed?
The sentries haven't spotted it yet, but these pods have clearly been fired off by a mothership in orbit. He has no doubt a ship dispatched for a purpose like those would be sufficiently armed for an orbital bombardment. The only reason Opportunity Tower hasn't been blasted off the surface of the planet is because of the hostages being held inside.
If he kills the hostages, he will doom his cause. If he doesn't kill the hostages, it will be an unacceptable show of weakness, which will damage any support their cause has in the Supremacy. Sweat trickles down his forehead.
There's only one way forward with a chance of victory. He'll move the hostages to a more secure location, and engage the incoming Special Officers. Killing them will be a show of strength to offset the loss of face from sparing the hostages.
"We'll take them down to the mines," he barks to a subordinate. "Deep as we can. Bring the Reprimand with us."
As Laird and his team begin moving down into the mines below the colony, the other squads move to the projected landing sites. They are armed to the teeth -- some with plasma and punchpoint firearms, others with whatever modified mining equipment they could scrounge together. The sounds of hurried footsteps echo down the empty streets.
The first pod comes down like an egg from space.
It strikes a small church, lodging in the belltower and sending a resounding dong throughout the settlement. Brickwork rains down on the surrounding insurgents, but none of them make a move to flee. Running away is an option they've relinquished a long time ago.
They fire.
The pod is buffeted by plasma and bullets, dents forming in its metal surface and holes quickly opening up. One insurgent, clad in bulky armour to protect himself from friendly fire, charges up to the doors of the pod. He plants a heavy mining drill against them, attaching it to the pod with firm clamps and beginning the drilling sequence with a wrench of the handle.
Sparks kick up for just a second as the drill begins eating away at the doors -- right before they explode outwards.
The armoured insurgent flies backwards through the air, but he never reaches the ground. Instead, at the height of his flight, he is impaled by a thin wooden branch, his heart speared right through. He's killed instantly.
More branches and roots crawl out of the open pod at astounding speeds, spreading over and crushing the gathered insurgents before they can react. The tree that grows out of the pod dwarfs the church that it crashed into by nearly ten times, forming a wooden structure long and thick enough to serve as a bridge right to the Opportunity Tower.
Wood creaks and wood snaps as the first of the Seven Blades steps out of the pod, wooden feet landing on wooden bark.
Many years ago, Gene Tyrant bunkers all over Supremacy territory burst open, releasing some of their final spiteful creations. Those botanical lifeforms -- sentient and vicious trees -- were called the Fell Beasts, and they waged a campaign of indiscriminate slaughter. The timely intervention of the Supreme stopped their rampage, however, wiping out all the Fell Beasts before they could cause more havoc.
Wiping them all out… save one.
Ionir Yggdrasil, the Last Fell Beast, steps out of the pod and onto the bridge that is an extension of his own body.
His form is a thing of intertwining branches, spiraling out from his head and knitting together into exaggerated wooden muscles. He is a giant of a thing, nine feet tall, a single swing of one of his massive arms clearly being sufficient to reduce a man to pulp. A 'mane' of leaves hangs around his cranium, but the closest thing he has to a face is a shallow square-shaped indentation in the center of his head.
The thin branch connecting him to the bridge snaps, and the great tree that was just an extension of him becomes its own independent lifeform. In the present environment, a massive tree like that will not survive long, but if that fact bothers Ionir he does not show it.
Ionir's mane of leaves twitches as he inspects the area with inhuman senses -- and, detecting further enemies, he lets loose a bellow like the sounding of a great horn. Just like the concept of clothing, human language is something beyond him. In his hand of sharpened bark-fingers, he holds a halberd of solid steel. It is the only thing he has on him that is not made of wood.
The surviving insurgents begin to crawl out from between the massive roots -- but they are given no time to catch their breath. Ionir Yggdrasil is upon them in a moment, crushing their bodies with mighty blows from his fists and weapon. The sound of screaming is barely audible between the crunches and snaps of spine and skull.
Some of the survivors manage to get shots off before their inevitable deaths, however, and Ionir uses his halberd to block the burning plasma from striking his vulnerable wooden body. By the time he's dispatched the last of the unfortunate enemies, the metal weapon is melting in his grip.
He throws the weapon onto the floor, turning back to the pod and emitting a more high-pitched roar.
There are no words, but the meaning is surely understood. His companion steps out of the pod, reaching into empty space and retrieving an identical metal halberd. She tosses it to him, and he catches it in one hand.
The young woman who emerged from the pod looks around the scene of devastation with great interest, an innocent smile on her lips as she slips out onto the wooden bridge. Her golden Pugnant eyes are framed by red hair tied back into black-ribboned pigtails. Her red war-robes are covered by a black flameproof apron, the traditional uniform of her craft -- a blacksmith.
Her name is Gretchen Hail, and she is one of the foremost creators of Aether Armaments in the galaxy.
She raises an eyebrow as she spies a final insurgent on the edge of the crater, making a run for it. Narrowing her eyes, she reaches a hand into her orange Aether and, with luxurious ease, pulls out a white cutlass with a blade formed from hexagonal segments. It takes her just a moment to think of a name for her new weapon: this is her favourite part of the process.
"Friday Faraday," she finally decides, taking a swing at empty air.
The insurgent's head falls from his shoulders, and his carcass drops to the ground. This new Armament, Friday Faraday, is one that transmits a cutting edge directly to the location of the target. If an enemy manages to make physical contact with the blade, however, all the attacks previously transmitted are inflicted directly on the wielder.
That kind of downside is the price she pays for such a powerful effect -- and it's one that makes it unsuited for sustained use.
Gretchen tosses the cutlass over her shoulder, and it is reabsorbed into her Ragnarok Forge, recycled in a moment for its constituent materials. The principle of the weapon is sound: perhaps she'll iterate on it in a future creation.
She glances down at Ionir, who is growing his roots into the piled-up corpses, draining them of fluids entirely.
"Yggdrasil!" she shouts. "Afterwards."
Almost reluctantly, Ionir retracts his roots, joining Gretchen as she runs across the surface of the bridge -- the two of them making their way directly towards the Opportunity Tower.
Elsewhere in the colony, similar battles have ensued around the other two landing pods. The second pod landed right in the middle of the town square, its inhabitants leaping out and beginning their attack before the insurgents could even try and break into the vessel. Bodies are littering the ground, but the fight is far from over.
A black cape waves in the wind as its owner engages in combat against an insurgent wielding a mining saw. The device was meant to break up large boulders into easily transported chunks, but it will kill a human being easily enough. The insurgent swings it right at his opponents head -- but the Special Officer is agile, leaping right over the blow and stabbing his sword right down through his enemy’s skull.
Death, needless to say, is instant.
The owner of the sword is a young man with short purple hair and golden eyes. He adjusts the black cape that hangs off his dark purple war-robe. A smirk tugs at his lips, satisfaction at a well-won victory.
His name is Morgan Nacht, the newest of the Seven Blades. Despite his short tenure, his skill has already been recognised -- he is the apprentice of a certain Contender, after all.
Morgan spares a glance to his companion, who is just finishing his own fight. Where his own clothing is dark, the other Special Officer is bright -- white robes flowing as he moves, short white hair rustling in the wind. He's locked in combat with another pair of insurgents, dodging blows from their electrified batons.
Slash. Slash. An adjustment of his glasses. Slash.
Gustavo Mordecai is not a talented man, but he is a skilled one. Each of the elementary attacks has been practiced thousands of times to achieve this level of speed and precision. A scholar and a swordsman both, he has researched countless esoteric sword styles, creating his own unique tempo that is nearly impossible to predict.
Slash. Slash. Slash. Sheath.
The sliced bodies of his enemies fall to the floor, and Gustavo reaches into his robes, pulling out a canteen of water and taking a swig. A healthy body is a healthy mind, and it's always important to stay hydrated. He offers the bottle to Morgan, but the other young man shakes his head.
"Are you sure?" Gustavo prompts. "Going without fluids is a sure way to become exhausted, you know."
"No offense," Morgan purrs, raising a hand. "But I make a point not to drink anything someone else offers me."
"That's a little paranoid, don't you think?"
"Well… perhaps you're not paranoid enough."
Their conversation continues as they move through the empty streets, making their own way towards the tower.
What happened at the third landing site goes without saying. It crashed right through the roof of a storage facility that the insurgents were using as a temporary base. Bodies litter the floor of the building, each killed by a single stroke of a sword. Their faces are locked into final terror.
The woman responsible stands stock-still in the middle of the room, her dripping red sword held limp at her side. Her hair is as jet-black as her dress, and her skin is snow-white, a dark veil hanging over her face. It's hard to tell if she's even breathing.
She is Mariana pan Helios, one of the oldest-serving members of the Seven Blades. As she carved her way through this room, she did not make a sound, but that's no surprise -- it's said that she hasn't spoken in years. Not since the death of Nigen Rush. Broken hearts easily break other things, too.
Her head suddenly jerks to the left, in the direction of the Opportunity Tower, even though a wall separates the building from her vision. Almost robotically, she kneels down on the ground -- and plunges her sword down into the concrete. Purple Aether runs down the surface of the blade, and spreads out into the ground.
A corpse twitches, then another, and another. One by one, the dead rise to their feet, purple Aether sparking around them like electricity. In most horror videographs, zombies like these would emit unearthly moans or inhuman screeches, but no: they are as silent as the grave. Their now-purple eyes stare off into space.
Mariana walks out of the building, and the dead follow after her.
Far, far above, right on the edge of the atmosphere, the Child Garden soars. The sixth of the Seven Blades has remained here, to directly protect the Supreme Heir. The two of them stand together on the simulation deck, holograms making it seem as if they are standing in the middle of the battle themselves.
"Observe Nacht's movements here, girl," the sixth says, hands clasped behind his back as he replays Morgan Nacht's fight again and again. "The way he leverages his greater agility against a larger opponent. Do you see it?"
The Supreme Heir nods, her face a mask of utter concentration. She is a young girl of thirteen, black hair tied back into a ponytail, golden eyes glittering as she does her best to absorb everything she sees. Her hands grip the fabric of her white training tracksuit anxiously.
"Very good," the sixth says.
Edward Grace is an older man, by far the most senior of the Seven Blades, age having long since turned his hair and beard grey. Golden shoulderpads and a chestplate form a layer of armour over his white-and-blue robes, but the discipline of his stance is such that he probably doesn't need it.
He is the patriarch of a prominent family of Special Officers, and the direct bodyguard of the Supreme Heir. That fact is his pride.
Down below the Child Garden, below the Opportunity Tower, below the surface of Padrax Minor, Laird Hadaran is beginning to accept that his dream is dead.
One by one, he has lost contact with the squads dispatched to defend against the Special Officers. He entertained the notion for a brief moment, but he knows there is no technical failure causing this. He has lost contact with them because they are all dead.
He and his men wait in the darkness of the mines, guarding the hostages at the end of the tunnel. There is no escape from this place. Laird understands this perfectly well, and so his thought process has moved on from such deluded optimism.
What is on his mind now… is spite.
One of the Minister's daughters is quietly weeping. One of the guards screams at her to shut up. She does.
The Special Officers have two objectives: eliminate the terrorists and rescue the hostages. No matter what happens now, they will succeed in the former, but it is within Laird's power to make sure they fail in the latter. If nothing else, he can spit in their faces.
His hands tighten around the turret they are gripping.
The Reprimand is a weapon designed for starship-to-starship combat, but in this case the long-barreled firearm has been relocated to a stationary turret instead. His old contacts in the starship industry had arranged its transport here for him -- he'd intended to use it to blast hostile ships out of the sky, but the nature of this assault was something he was unprepared for.
If nothing else, though, it would suffice to reduce the hostages to ash.
"I'd advise against that, if I were you," calls out a calm voice from the other end of the tunnel. Laird jerks into motion, looking up as the speaker steps into view.
The moment Laird sees the figure, he knows who he's been dealing with, and he knows that he never stood a chance.
Baltay Kojirough.
He stands there, at the mouth of the tunnel, green war-robes open and displaying his muscular chest. Short blonde hair hangs beneath a conical hat, and his Cogitant-blue eyes glint in the dim light. His sword, the infamous Leviathan with its emerald-coloured blade, is already drawn.
The man who was Nigen Rush's best friend, rival, and killer. Apparently, their final duel was the stuff of legend. This is the person who slew the greatest swordsman.
In a single second, the grim determination that drove Laird Hadaran this far utterly abandons him.
"Fire!" he screams, pulling the triggers of the Reprimand.
Great explosive blasts fly down the length of the tunnel, accompanied by plasmafire from Laird's subordinates. The shining firepower does not give Baltay pause, though: he charges right towards it, a smile playing across his lips. Bullets and bolts miss him by fractions of inches, and the mighty blasts of the Reprimand sail past him entirely. They strike the rocks outside the tunnels, boulders raining down as the structure is destabilised.
No matter how close the shots get, though, Kojirough's Leviathan does not move. For a man who can see the future, being forced to block an attack is an unendurable insult. Baltay Kojirough simply makes sure he is where the attacks will not be.
He's upon them in seconds.
One slash severs the connection between the Reprimand's trigger and its firing system, neutralising it. Another modest sequence of attacks dispatches the subordinates Laird brought down here, each one executed with a single strike of the sword. The blows are efficient, and so hardly any blood taints Leviathan's green blade.
"Wait!" Laird cries. "Ple --"
Something brushes past him. It takes him a moment to realise that it was Leviathan -- and by the time he does, blood is already gushing from his jugular. It has been snipped open as though by a surgeon, with barely any pain. The only thing Laird feels before the end is a slight sense of warmth.
He drops to the ground, mouth open, eyes empty.
Baltay glances into the future for a moment, checking none of his enemies will get back up, before relaxing. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the stray drops of blood from Leviathan's surface, being careful not to make skin contact with the blade. Seemingly satisfied, he sheathes his sword and looks down at the bound hostages.
"Don't worry," he says, smiling kindly. "You're safe now."
It takes some time to get everyone out of the mines. The shots fired by the Reprimand caused something of a cave-in, so Baltay and the hostages are forced to wait for Ionir Yggdrasil to lift away the rubble with his spreading branches. In the meantime, the other Blades make their way through the settlement, executing any stray insurgents they find.
By the time the hostages are safely moved out of the mine and into Supremacy protection, night has already fallen. The six warriors are expected to gather, waiting for a transport shuttle to take them back to the Child Garden. However, it soon becomes obvious… that only five of them are present.
Baltay Kojirough, Gretchen Hail, Mariana pan Helios, Ionir Yggdrasil and Morgan Nacht.
They find the body in an alley, right on the outskirts of the settlement. Gustavo Mordecai, dead, the bloody wound on his back having long since dried. A fly crawls over his open eyes. His sword is gripped tight in the grasp of rigor mortis, and his glasses lay abandoned in a pool of his own blood.
Baltay Kojirough respectfully removes his hat, clutching it to his chest. The others look down solemnly at the body. Morgan Nacht, for his part, kneels down and quietly closes Gustavo's eyes.
Some of them genuinely don't notice it. Some of them just pretend not to.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
But Gustavo Mordecai, slain in battle against a force that uses guns and mining equipment, has clearly been killed by a sword.
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Twenty Days Before Avaman's Attack…
Atoy Muzazi looked up at the sea of stars.
For a long time now, his eye has felt drawn to the dark between those stars, to the despair that had seemed to never be far behind his happiness. Losing Marie, the things demanded of him by the GID, the feeling of losing himself… all of that had seemed to just draw him closer and closer to that abyssal void. It had gripped his heart, strangling it.
Now, though… it felt as though defeating Jean Lyons, refuting Jean Lyons, had healed something broken inside him. If he tried now, really tried… he felt like he could see the stars again. Even if the despair was still there, lingering, it wasn't all there was. It was always interrupted by the light.
The ship he'd bought to get himself back to Supremacy space was a modest thing -- the Star Raptor, a fighter model usually dispatched by a larger starship for combat manoeuvres. It wasn't really designed to make long journeys all by itself, but the mechanics had apparently adjusted it for that purpose.
It was cramped, with just enough space to lie down and hold the controls, but Muzazi didn't much mind that. The ship he'd first been given as a Special Officer had barely been more than a metal coffin, after all. It was even a little nostalgic.
The stars became lines as the ship picked up speed, emerging from the asteroid field, and Muzazi couldn't help but vaguely wonder what had become of Dragan Hadrien. How had the situation on the Deus Nobiscum concluded? This ship had a working connection to galactic networks, so he'd managed to pick up the news that the Superbian Apexbishop had passed away, but the details had eluded him.
In the end, he'd had no choice but to abruptly leave the Final Church's Truemeet. For one, his staying would risk exposing Helga and Olga Malwarian… and for another, he'd received a summons.
For the fifth time that day, Muzazi worked the controls, bringing up the message he'd received. A communication from one of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir -- the great Aethersmith, Gretchen Hail.
The videograph flickered into existence above him, blocking the window. On it, Gretchen Hail stood, legs wide, hands on her hips. Her fanged mouth grinned as the red-haired girl addressed the camera.
"Special Officer Atoy Muzazi!" she called out boisterously. "Good news! Your efforts have been recognised! In, uh, recognition of your contribution to the Supremacy, you've been offered a place in the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir! As one of the Blades, it will be your duty to protect the Supreme Heir and help guide her education! Refusal is not an option! Coordinates and proof of identity are attached! Hope to see you soon!"
The rumours of her… enthusiasm certainly weren't exaggerated. Muzazi was surprised she hadn't blown out the microphone with how loud she'd been shouting.
Even so, after watching the file so many times, Muzazi couldn't help but feel his heartbeat quicken. To him, the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir were legendary figures -- almost seeming fictional, with the distance he'd admired them from. To be offered a place among their ranks was… unbelievable.
A dream.
As Gretchen had said, the codes attached to the file confirmed that the message was real -- and it gave him a location to report to the Child Garden, the Seven Blades' base of operations. He was on his way there at full speed, pushing the craft to its limits.
The dream he'd shared with Marie -- his goal of becoming Supreme -- had fallen into the depths of his mind during that dark time. Now, though, it was something he could reach for again. Becoming one of the Seven Blades -- joining that upper echelon of the Supremacy's warrior class -- would be an important rung on that ladder.
The dishonourable, disgraceful tactics that Jean Lyons had claimed were the cornerstone of the Supremacy's dominance… Muzazi would make his way to the top and eradicate them.
He flicked the video interface off of the viewscreen -- and came face-to-mask with Nigen Rush, floating on the other side of it like a corpse in the ocean.
"Turn back," the spectre wheezed. "Don't go."
Muzazi squeezed his eyes shut, held his breath, and waited.
One… two… three…
He heard a hand plant itself against the glass.
Four… five… six…
He heard hollow breathing, like something was in the capsule with him.
Seven… eight… nine…
He heard the sound of dripping fluid, of oozing blood, of a red rainfall all around him.
Ten.
He heard nothing.
Muzazi opened his eyes, and saw nothing outside but the lines of the stars. There was no hand against the glass, nothing in the starship with him, no blood. Just a disease of the mind. He'd hoped these hallucinations would cease when he came to terms with Marie's absence, but they continued to torment him.
Perhaps, once he arrived at the Child Garden, there was something that could be done about it.
As Atoy Muzazi flew through the void of space, though, he couldn't help but wonder. If he was being invited to join the ranks of the Seven Blades, that meant they'd lost one of their number. Under what circumstances had that been? Had they simply left the organisation, or been killed? Was it something he should be wary of?
Those questions, and many others, flitted through his mind as he made his way towards the Child Garden -- but for the time being, all he could do was wait.
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Eighteen Days Before Avaman's Attack…
If Baltay Kojirough was asked to describe a goddess, he supposed he would have to describe Paradise Charon.
Tall, shapely, beautiful -- and emitting a sense of authority like heat. No matter what she looked like, you knew that it was her. Her identity was absolute. Even through a hologram, she had a sheer presence that couldn't be denied.
As the leader of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir, his quarters on the Child Garden were second only to the Supreme Heir herself. It was a wide open space, like a farball field, every necessity of living spread out across the room. In one corner was a set of automatic training dummies, in another corner a basic kitchen, in another a gargantuan videograph screen, and in yet another a massive bed.
There were even more luxuries than that, of course, but those were the things that first caught the eye. A person could spend a year in this hexagonal room without ever growing bored.
Baltay sighed as he lay back in the jacuzzi at the room's centre, a towel slung over his bare shoulders. It had been a long day of sparring, and he was glad of a chance to rest.
"You seem in good spirits," Paradise noted, her holographic self circling the jacuzzi. "Especially for someone who just lost a teammate."
Every time Baltay saw the Second Contender, Paradise Charon, she looked completely different. It was as if she was infatuated with the very concepts of fashion and aesthetic, changing her entire appearance at the drop of a hat. The only thing that ever stayed consistent was her height of seven feet, which was distinctive enough to reveal her at a glance.
Today, she was wearing a red backless dress, her hair dyed gold and arranged into cascading ringlets. Silver piercings shaped like needles were embedded in her nose and ears, and she wore contacts that made her eyes a peacefully deep blue -- right down to the sclera.
Tomorrow she would look entirely different, but no doubt just as beautiful. He'd shared a bed with her on several occasions, and the strength of their friendship had been enough to form this unbreakable alliance.
"We are warriors of the Supremacy," Baltay replied, cracking his neck. "Every time we go into battle, we accept that we might die. I won't dishonour Gustavo's resolve by mourning excessively."
"No?" Paradise raised a black eyebrow.
"No. To do so would be as good as saying that he was too weak for the battlefield," Baltay said. "Instead, I choose to cast my eye to the future. The excitement of a new ally, rather than the sadness of a departed one."
Paradise sat down next to him, dangling her legs into the water. The version of her in the room was just a hologram, so she couldn't technically feel the water, but he'd heard accounts of phantom sensations from such things. Perhaps she could feel some kind of warmth, even over the distances of stars.
"I was surprised you asked me for help, to tell the truth," she said quietly, her vast blue eyes locking onto his own. "It's unlike you. You've always preferred self-sufficiency. To request the aid of a Contender in tracking down a single Special Officer… what's the interest?"
This was the dance you had to perform with the Second Contender. Even with the affection between them, and the history they shared, she simply couldn't help herself. She would tear out every useful scrap of information he had, if he let her. A vulture upon a corpse.
"He's an impressive young man," Baltay said. "The events on Nocturnus, on Panacea… he's acquitted himself well. Talent like that should be given the opportunity to grow. Isn't that the guiding principle of our Supremacy?"
"He's a Minister-killer, isn't he?" Paradise noted.
Baltay laughed out loud. "As if you really care about that. What are bureaucrats like that for, if not making examples?"
Paradise smiled slightly. She reached her hand out of the range of the hologram projector, retrieving a glass of red wine, and took a delicate sip. "While I was looking for his location, I had a look into his character as well. I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all," Baltay frowned.
"He actually reminds me a little of your old friend, Nigen Rush. Feeling… nostalgic, Baltay? Wanting a replacement for the man you killed?"
Baltay stared off into the empty distance, a haunted look in his eyes. The warmth of the jacuzzi suddenly seemed so terribly cold. He swallowed.
"If he's anything like Nigen…" he said quietly. "Then he'll be an invaluable addition to the team. What about your side of things? How is it aboard the Shesha right now?"
An obvious attempt at changing the subject, but it was one that Paradise seemed to accept. She swirled the glass of wine in her hand, staring down into the depths of the resulting whirlpool. The slightest smirk tugged at the side of her red lips.
"Aboard the Shesha?" she echoed, with just a hint of amusement. "You know… I've been considering something recently, Baltay. When you get down to it, I'm the only real Contender, aren't I?"
Baltay furrowed his brow. "How’s that?"
Paradise waved an expressive hand. "Well, just think about it. That zealot Avaman is far too loyal to the Supreme to ever try anything. The Hellhound only sticks around for the payment he gets from the Body as a bodyguard for the old man. Ming's a halfwit. I'm the only one seriously trying to replace the Supreme."
Baltay reached off the side of the jacuzzi, taking his glass of water and gulping it down. "Well," he said, wiping his mouth. "You already have the Heir. You're doing well in that regard."
Indeed, the Supreme Heir was a valuable piece to have.
Unlike some of the governments that formed the UAP, the Heir of the Supremacy was not automatically the one who took over when the current ruler died. No, the Supreme Heir only became relevant under very specific circumstances. In cases where the Supreme died of natural causes or the killer of the Supreme was unknown, a Dawn Contest would be organised.
Countless warriors from across the Supremacy would do battle for the right to face the Supreme Heir in single combat. The victor of that bout would then ascend to the rank of Supreme. As such, so long as Paradise's faction possessed the Supreme Heir, they had a fifty-percent chance of installing a Supreme they controlled. The ideal outcome would be for Paradise to become Supreme herself, but she liked to hedge her bets.
"Mm," Paradise nodded, taking another sip. "The Supreme Heir. How is young Aclima doing, by the way?"
Baltay thought about it for a moment. "Her training is going well. Edward tells me that the battle on Padrax Minor was a godsend for her development. A real and recorded conflict we can use as a training resource, base simulations on… it's looking very good. Her swordsmanship is progressing, too."
"Well…" Paradise said seriously, locking eyes with him over light-years. "Don't overdo things, Baltay. I don't want her too strong."
Baltay decided not to think too hard about the implications of that.
"Anyway," Paradise continued, finishing off her wine as she stood up. "Maybe this Atoy Muzazi will be a useful learning resource as well. He's on his way?"
Baltay held a finger up to his earpiece, listening to the report he was receiving. "Speak of the devil…" he muttered. "A small ship's just come into range. I don't know who it would be if not him."
Paradise chuckled as Baltay turned, heading for the door. "Have fun, Baltay!" she called after him. "Just… not too much fun. The Forest of Sin has saplings everywhere."
Baltay made a show of stopping in front of the door, feigning tension until the moment Paradise's hologram flickered away. Of course he knew that her ability had extensions all over the Supremacy. They'd found several of those tiny trees nestled in the depths of the Child Garden, listening in to conversations, slowly growing their thirsty roots.
So he'd had Ionir eat them a long time ago.
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Muzazi's limbs ached as he climbed out of the Star Raptor, discomfort overcome by awe as he took in his first sight of the Child Garden's interior.
Counting his own tiny vessel, eight ships of eclectic design and function were docked in the hangar -- and even with all of them here, there was still plentiful space. The ceiling was so high that it was barely visible in the dim light, and the walls so far apart that this hangar could probably hold a hundred more ships. It was hard to believe that he was in a starship, and not some kind of building on the ground.
They said that the Child Garden was the Shesha made small, but even so… it was gargantuan.
"Safe trip?" called out a vaguely familiar voice, echoing throughout the massive room. Muzazi instinctively tensed up at the sound, swinging his head to identify the source.
Baltay Kojirough. Baltay Kojirough, the man who had beaten Nigen Rush, was strolling casually across the hangar floor. Baltay Kojirough was strolling towards him.
It was no wonder that Muzazi had recognised the voice. He'd watched videographs of Kojirough numerous times, accounts of his legendary rivalry with Nigen Rush and the climactic duel that had ended it. Even so, he'd never thought he'd meet such a legend in person.
"You alright?" Baltay said, smiling as he reached him. "Long trip, eh? Tiring?"
Muzazi hurriedly shook his head. "Not at all, sir," he said. "I assure you -- I'm raring to go. I'm ready to do whatever's required of me."
A strange smile played across Baltay's lips, and he chuckled. "Wow," he said. "You're a real go-getter, huh?"
Was that good? Muzazi wasn't sure of the proper response under the circumstances, but he nodded all the same. If he wanted to do well here, it would be best to ingratiate himself quickly.
"Well, it's good to hear," Baltay said. "The rest are eager to see what you're made of -- and the Heir's curious too. It's not often we get new faces around here. Walk with me?"
The two of them strode out of the hangar and through one of the neighbouring hallways. It was smooth and cylindrical like a tunnel, the walls lined with monitors displaying footage of a flowing green field. With sound piping through unseen speakers, it was almost like the two of them were walking through that imaginary landscape.
"I trust you're familiar with the requirements of the position?" Baltay asked, glancing sideways at him.
Again, Muzazi nodded. "It's the duty of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir to protect the Supreme Heir with our lives and prepare her for the eventuality of a Dawn Contest."
"That's the encyclopaedia description, yes," Baltay conceded. "But do you understand what it means? What's expected of you?"
This time, Muzazi had no choice but to shake his head. "No, sir. I don't suppose that I do."
"No need to call me 'sir', Atoy. The Seven Blades have a fairly flat team structure -- I'm the leader when it comes to decisions, sure, but I don't want to put myself above anyone else."
They passed through a junction, turning left -- and through this new hallway the monitors simulated the environment of the ocean depths. The images of fish swam past as blurs of motion, bubbles rising up and out of sight. It was so realistic that Muzazi could almost feel the pressure.
"As a Blade," Baltay continued. "You must be -- more than anything else -- a symbol. You must represent a path that the Heir can go down, and you must show her what that path would profit her. What kind of man do you think you are, Atoy Muzazi?"
He thought about it for a moment. "A good one… I would hope."
Baltay smiled. "Don't we all? But there's shades to goodness, Muzazi, different forms it can take. I look forward to seeing that from you, too."
"Thank you, sir."
They stopped outside a sealed door, the monitors around them flickering into blackness. The effect was somewhat eerie -- if not for the thin lights between the blank monitors, they'd have been plunged into complete darkness. Baltay turned to face him, dim white light cast over his face.
"Right," he said. "Here we are. I'm not going to lie -- they're probably going to want to see what you're made of. I'm right in saying you've got some aches and pains from the trip here, yes?"
Muzazi sighed. "Unfortunately so. I apologise -- it was a cramped starship, so…"
Baltay held up a hand, stopping him from going any further. "No worries. No worries at all. I expected a situation like this, so I grabbed this from the infirmary before meeting with you." He reached into his robes, pulling out a thin and sleek syringe. "Muscle reinforcer. Should keep you on your feet for at least a practice round."
"You expected…?"
Baltay laughed. "Yes, Atoy, I just expected. Don't worry -- I can't see that far into the future."
Muzazi mirrored the laugh, but as he took the syringe from Baltay and injected it into his arm, he couldn't help but feel somewhat uneasy. It was common knowledge that Baltay Kojirough had learnt the art of precognition from his pilgrimage to Abra-Facade, but the extent of his abilities was the stuff of rumours alone. How far into the future could this man see? How much of Muzazi's intentions was he aware of?
If nothing else, the syringe did its work quickly. Muzazi felt the weakness in his muscles fade away, his stance assuming its usual disciplined rigidity. He let out a heavy breath of tension.
"Better?" Baltay asked.
"Much better," he smiled. For the first time since he'd set foot on the Child Garden, he felt somewhat relaxed.
"Then let's get to it," Baltay said, planting his hand against the door. It slid open.
Beyond was a room even larger than the original hangar, the size of a stadium, with a flat surface and an elevated level for an audience to sit. Muzazi's eyes flicked around the people scattered throughout the stands. He'd done research on the Seven Blades before, and so he recognised the faces here.
The Aethersmith, Gretchen Hail, who had summoned him. She watched eagerly, hands cupping her chin as she leaned forward.
The last of the Fell Beasts, the monstrous Ionir Yggdrasil. He stood right at the back of the room. Whether he felt excitement or disdain for the new arrival was impossible to tell.
Mariana pan Helios, the one who had been Nigen Rush's closest confidant. She sat completely still in the stands, and the veil hanging over her face made it hard to determine where she was even looking.
Edward Grace, the Supreme Heir's personal bodyguard and tutor. The old man stood at military attention, one hand on his sheathed broadsword, standing respectfully. He looked down at Muzazi with stern yet appraising eyes.
Then, the one that Muzazi was not too familiar with -- Morgan Nacht, a short young man clad in a dark cape. Short purple hair was slicked back, exposing an impressive forehead. His eyes narrowed with mild interest as Muzazi entered the arena, and he smirked a smirk that eluded definition.
The only one not present was the scholar Gustavo Mordecai. Was he the one who had left the Seven Blades?
And then, of course, sitting high above the others, was the girl herself. The Supreme Heir Aclima, wearing a white training tracksuit, a bright yellow backpack slung over her shoulders. She was smaller than Muzazi had expected, and more nervous-looking, her hands clasped anxiously on her lap.
Muzazi bowed respectfully, feeling the pressure of so many esteemed eyes on him. It felt like he was being observed under a microscope.
"Well, this is him," Baltay addressed the room before him, walking to his side. "Special Officer Atoy Muzazi -- the newest member of the Seven Blades of the Turning of the Heir. Thoughts?"
There was silence for a moment. Muzazi gulped. Despite everything he'd been through, these were still people he had idolised in the past. The thought of being judged by them… was daunting.
Edward Grace was the first to speak. "Nocturnus? Panacea?" his gravelly voice barked. "Those were your work?"
Muzazi called out to him in response. "I was there for those incidents, yes, but I don't feel comfortable calling them 'my work'. Many people contributed -- I was just one of them."
Edward slowly nodded. "Very good," he said.
Baltay sauntered past him, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "Talk is cheap," he said, raising his voice to be heard throughout the room. "And we are expensive people, no? I think rather than have Atoy tell us what he's about, it'd be rather more effective -- and more interesting -- to see what he has to offer." He turned to look at Muzazi. "Does that sound good to you, Atoy?"
Muzazi nodded. "Of course," he said, allowing his silver Aether to crackle, ready to summon a Radiant from his palm. "I'd be happy to demonstrate my skills."
Baltay grinned. "Excellent," he said. "Then I'd be happy to --"
"Actually," called out an unfamiliar voice. "Mind if I take this one, boss?"
Muzazi frowned, looking up at the source of the sound. Morgan Nacht. He'd risen to his feet in the stands, stepping on the backs of chairs, using them as a makeshift staircase as he made his way down to the arena floor. The other Blades followed him with their eyes, but nobody protested the interruption.
Baltay frowned, his hand slipping off his sword. "Of course," he said, a definite note of disappointment in his voice. "If you wish to test him yourself, who am I to protest?"
Nacht hopped off the last row of seats, dropping into the arena. His stance was relaxation at its utmost, limp and placid, but Muzazi got the feeling he could leap into deadly motion at any moment -- like a snake. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, but Atoy Muzazi instinctively disliked this man.
With a sigh, Baltay walked off to the stands, crossing Morgan's path.
"Don't go overboard," he said sternly.
"Me?" Morgan smiled. "Never."
Muzazi lowered his stance as Morgan approached, ready to leap into combat whenever required. Morgan, for his part, simply circled his adversary, an easy grin on his face, his hand resting on his sword. A predator inspecting its prey.
"It's kinda messed up, huh?" he said. "We're making you fight after such a long trip."
Muzazi glared. "I'm always ready for battle."
Morgan continued to circle. "Good answer. You got here pretty quick, though, didn't you? There was no need to be in such a rush." He glanced up at Gretchen, in the stands. "Did you tell him to do that?"
Gretchen rolled her eyes. "Some people are just hard workers, Nacht! I understand if the concept's alien to you, though."
"Ha! Harsh." Morgan's gaze returned to Muzazi. "You're a little quiet. Nervous?"
Muzazi shifted his footing, just slightly. "Nonsense. I'd be more worried about --"
Metal sang as Morgan pulled his sabre from his sheath -- and, in the same instant, he leapt forward. Muzazi ignited a Radiant on his hand at the exact same time, swinging it to meet his enemy's assault.
Morgan's speed was impressive -- it was almost as if he'd teleported. One second, he was a few metres away from Muzazi, and the next he was right in his face.
"A!" the short man cried, swinging his sword right at Muzazi's torso, purple Aether coursing around it. Muzazi went to block with his Radiant, but the strength of the blow was far beyond what he'd expected -- he avoided being cut, but the force was such that he was sent flying backwards through the air anyway.
Morgan didn't wait for Muzazi to even hit the ground before continuing his assault. "B! A!"
For a moment, Muzazi just flipped end over end in the air, before righting himself with his thrusters. It was just in time, too -- the instant he regained his balance, he was forced to swing his Radiant to prevent a blur of a projectile from striking him in the face. He only got a good look at the thing once it ricocheted into the ground: a plain white block, each side equal, perfect in its simple geometry.
The force of the strike would have broken Muzazi's arm if not for the Aether infusion. He finally landed, boots kicking up sparks along the ground, eyes fixed on Morgan as he ran forward in pursuit.
Those letters he was calling out were clearly Aether abilities, but Muzazi hadn't seen enough of them to fully understand how they worked. The best thing to do, then, would be to end this fight before Morgan could bring out anything else.
Muzazi shrugged off his coat and then -- with a spark of silver Aether -- created a thruster on it, launching it towards Morgan.
He went to dodge to the side, but the thruster was too fast, and the coat wrapped around him -- covering his face and blinding him. Muzazi leapt up into the air, thrusters on his feet propelling him upwards, and raised his hands high. Another Radiant burst out of his other palm -- and with both hands blazing white light, he zoomed down towards his target.
But, before Muzazi could reach him, Morgan spoke. Muffled, but audible.
"C. A."
There was the slightest twitch of movement -- and the coat exploded outwards, fabric shredded into pieces by an unseen blade. Freed from the restraint, Morgan drew his sword back, ready to meet Muzazi's twin slashes. Muzazi did not falter: if Morgan wished to see what he was made of, he would oblige. The power of the thruster on his back only intensified, picking up more speed.
"A!" Morgan struck.
Muzazi slashed.
But both of them were blocked.
Rather than hitting each other, their blades had instead made contact with the green metal of the notorious Leviathan. Muzazi hadn't even seen him move, but at some point Baltay Kojirough had stepped into the middle of their bout and effortlessly deflected their attacks. Morgan's eyes widened: he clearly hadn't predicted it either.
"A bit much, right?" Baltay raised an eyebrow. "It's just a sparring match. We've just gotten a new Blade -- I don't want to have to replace either of you already."
Muzazi let out a heavy breath, nodding as he dispelled his Radiants. Lingering smoke drifted up from his palms. Across from him, Morgan wordlessly sheathed his sword.
"All the same…" Baltay grinned, a light twinkling in his eyes. "Very impressive, Atoy. Very, very impressive."
A wave of polite applause ran through the meagre crowd -- although most of it was Gretchen -- and Morgan began his walk back towards the stands. As he passed Muzazi, however -- he muttered something. The words were under his breath, barely audible, intended only for a single listener.
"If I were you," he said. "I'd watch my back."
Muzazi whipped his head around to face Morgan, but the other man just continued to walk away, yawning as if he hadn't just made a threat. Hot anger flared through Muzazi's veins -- he knew he'd been right to dislike that arrogant man. Before he could call after Morgan, however, Muzazi felt a firm hand land on his shoulder.
"Hey," Baltay said cheerfully. "I'm sure you want to get to your quarters -- get some rest -- but there's something we want to show you first."
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There were dim lights in Gretchen Hail's forge, but even so most of the illumination was provided by the glow from various fabricators. Moulds for various weapons were slowly written into existence, printed into space; the resultant frames for swords, axes and other killing implements carefully lifted and organised by thin automatic arms dangling from the ceiling. An automatic ladder skittered across the floor, too, providing Gretchen elevation as she rummaged through her stores.
It was no surprise that she needed the help: Muzazi hadn't quite appreciated it over the video message, but the woman was tiny. Even standing at her full height, Gretchen's head only barely reached his chest. Right now, she was neck-deep in a box on a high shelf, clearly trying to track something down.
Muzazi glanced to his side, to where Baltay was standing -- the only other of the Seven Blades that had accompanied him to this inner sanctum. He just shrugged, smiling ruefully.
"She'll find it eventually," he said, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall.
"It's here somewhere," Gretchen said, in between hums of an indistinct tune. "No… no, this isn't… hm? Ah, nah… oh, haha! Here we go!"
With a grunt of effort, she pulled free a long object wrapped in some kind of red cloth. She stepped backwards off the ladder, holding the object in both hands -- and with a flourish, she held it out to Muzazi.
"A gift," she said, grinning widely. "For the newest member of the Seven Blades."
It wasn’t difficult to work out what was concealed behind that cloth, given the shape.
"We noticed you didn't have a sword," Baltay said, striding up next to Gretchen. "It's hard to be a Blade if you don't… well, have a blade, isn't it?"
Muzazi smiled. "I… appreciate it. I truly do."
"Open it," Baltay urged.
Smiling nervously, Muzazi reached out to pull the cloth from the concealed weapon -- and then stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes widened, and his heart nearly skipped a beat. He gulped down dry air.
Right before him, standing between Gretchen and Baltay, was the bleeding spectre of Nigen Rush. The golden light that had previously shone from his visor was gone, replaced with an oozing waterfall of blood. As Muzazi watched, transfixed for a moment, the vision slowly, slowly shook it's head.
No, Muzazi decided. No. You do not rule me.
He steeled himself, ignoring the phantom, and whipped the cloth off the extended weapon. Instantly, all traces of fear left him. His eyes widened again, but for another reason entirely. Rush vanished as if he'd never been there, and an involuntary grin rose to Muzazi's face.
He could see the stars again.
Resting on Gretchen's palms, held out towards him, was without a doubt his Luminescence.