Geol’ik eyed the display as the eight titanic superfreighters slowly made their way through the Carvoran Expanse. The massive nebula that filled this region of space made it difficult for vessels to fly through, forcing them to the limited clear pathways. It wasn’t exactly known what was in the nebula that made FTL travel so dangerous, but aside a handful of science teams that were there, nobody truly cared. There were safe corridors, and that was what mattered. Naturally, given the frequency with which these trade lanes were used, it was the perfect spot for pirates to strike at.
As such the convoy was heavily escorted. Two destroyers coasted along, one at the forefront, one at the end, staying surprisingly close to the titanic vessels they were protecting. Yet while the two warships were a threat that could not be overlooked, it was the carrier sitting in the centre of the convoy that was the true danger. The Kiri’ were masters of attack craft, and he knew that the moment they’d be spotted, that vessel would unleash its cargo by the thousands.
Like stinging a Barg-nest, he mused. He waited, patiently. So did his crew aboard the Levia’nik, his command vessel for this raid. So did the warriors aboard the Voar’t and the Ki’ragt. So did the male and females aboard the dozens of smaller vessels as they geared themselves up for brutal close quarters combat. They would launch themselves from their ships, using shuttles, or crashing themselves into the enormous cargo bays of the freighters entirely, before charging out of them and engaging the defenders for control of the ship.
The enemy warships would be his to deal with, however. Two destroyers and a carrier versus his three destroyers, and four support frigates. He could not board them, the Geol’ being simply far too large to try to crawl through the narrow hallways of the Kiri’, so victory would be decided in an energy duel.
As such he waited. As such clan Givrain waited.
The convoy sailed on, alert and wary, their sensors actively searching for danger, yet Geol’ik and his captains were no novices. They remained hidden within the darker parts of the nebula, where their energy signatures could not be discerned from the fluctuations.
On they went, and finally they crossed the threshold. Far ahead of the convoy a single ship, barely larger than a frigate, abandoned the stealth it had been running under. Powerful generators came to life, its signature clear and visible to all nearby. Behind it, several more corvette-sized vessels blinked into existence as well.
The Kiri’ reacted as predicted. The first destroyer charged ahead as the freighters slowed down. The massive armour plates on the sides of the carrier began to slide open, quickly followed by the ship vomiting clouds of silver as the attack craft were launched.
The second destroyer stayed where it was, providing a final line of defence.
Geol’ik waited patiently, quietly praying for the ancestors for their support, that they might witness his deeds and those of his clan, and be proud of them. Others joined him, and soon the bridge was filled with ancient words of rite as they beseeched the spirits of those who had lived before them to lend them their courage, their strength, their wisdom.
Then he gave the signal. He opened the coms to the rest of the fleet and roared a simple “CHARGE!” The warcry was picked up and reverberated through the void, being loudly broadcasted on every channel. “For Givrain! For the Patriarch! For honour and glory!” the Geol’ cried out as the destroyers slid out of the nebula and made a straight line towards their targets.
The Kiri’ destroyer saw the danger and its thrusters flared to life, turning sideways so it offered the aggressors its broadside. The other destroyer, too far ahead, realised its mistake as its sensors began to identify the vessels ahead of it as a large tug with other support vessels that were irrelevant as combatants. The captain gave a command and the engines were cut. Thrusters came about flipped the ship around, before the engines were re-engaged, slowing the ship down, before finally managing to revert the direction. And in between the two warships was the enormous cloud of fighters, bombers and other assault craft, who were rapidly shifting direction and making for the nearest Geol’ destroyer.
Geol’ik saw the danger the Voar’t was facing and called up the captains of his frigates to abandon their support of the other destroyers and to support the endangered vessel instead. Their affirmations roared over the coms as they broke free from the encapsulating nebula, adjusted their course, and made for the Voar’t, which was slowing down to allow their reinforcements to catch up with them.
Another order and both his own vessel and the Ki’ragt began to steam ahead towards the lone destroyer barring their path. Around them a flurry of smaller vessels raced along, lurking in the protective envelope of the larger warships for now, but ready to pounce upon the freighters, which were accelerating as fast as they could.
Missiles flew in both directions as the distance closed. The Geol’ warships were outfitted for alpha strikes and delivered accordingly. The lawbreakers had a disadvantage, their vessels being piratical in nature and lacking the dedicated shipyards a real military had. Normally there would be a strong discrepancy in training and discipline as well, but the Geol’ were a race of warriors first and foremost, and the Kiri’ were less so.
Yet, Geol’ik thought as he saw the enemy vessel begin to take mounting damage as his clan lashed out fury, they are not military, but mere company guards. One of his hands went to where the small pin was fastened to his undersuit, beneath his power armour. And we are not your average lawbreakers. He nodded towards the warrior in charge of communications, and the male obliged.
“This is the Levia’nik, speaking for the Givrain and Patriarch Geol’ik. Surrender, and you shall go free! Resist, and face the wrath of our might!”
They did not have to wait long for a reply. It was succinct and to the point.
“Die, Geol’ scum.”
Geol’ik grinned all his teeth bare. “They wish to test us! They think they can face us in noble combat! Rise to this challenge, brave warriors! Show them the might of clan Givrain! Annihilate their vessels! Crush their limbs! Cry for war until their ears bleed! Crush them all!”
Thousands of warriors roared, clamouring for war, for victory, for violence, for glory, honour and wealth!
The destroyers leapt forward, each knowing well their target. The first destroyer fought bravely, but soon found itself overwhelmed as two vessels laid into it with a will. Neither possessed heavy enough armaments to easily destroy one another. Not that this deterred either party to open up with everything they had as the distance shrunk. Energy flashed between the vessels, kinetic batteries lined up their shots and opened fire, explosive munitions slamming into shields or through them. The Kiri’ destroyer put up a fierce fight, but it was outmatched and the Geol’ knew it. As soon as the enemy vessel was properly tied up, the other vessels pulled free and made for the freighters.
Further ahead the silvery cloud containing thousands of attack craft lined up their attack runs on the Voar’t and its support vessels. With a silent howl they threw themselves towards their foe, even as their main batteries opened up. The weapons, meant for clashing with other warships, nonetheless tore holes into the dense formations, causing them to scatter.
This did not deter them in the slightest, and like an enraged swarm they launched themselves onto the Geol’ destroyer.
Only to be met by a dense lattice of intercepting fire as their point defence matrixes went online and the newly acquired pulsar batteries opened fire. Telemetry poured in through the sensors, parted it on to automated systems and attack vectors, dodge probabilities, velocity, acceleration possibilities, were calculated and predicted, and then fed to targeting computers.
The Kiri’ attack craft ran into a wall of pulsar fire that tore their first wave to ribbons, leaving scant few survivors. Only those that were lucky enough to dodge the merciless calculations lived to tell the tale.
The other waves saw the fate of their brothers and tried to break off the attack run, but the laws of physics were without remorse and one did not simply reverse thrust in a vacuum. The second and third waves met similar fates, each leaving exponentially more survivors than the ones before.
Only the fourth and fifth wave made it out unscathed, but they were now rapidly dispersing rather than continuing the assault.
The carrier, having witnessed the death of roughly half its complement in scant few minutes, began loudly broadcasting its intent to cease fire and surrender.
Geol’ik grinned his fangs bare, even as the frigates steamed ahead, ready to reap a greater toll in casualties. “Stand down!” he barked, reeling in his over-eager captains. “They fight no longer. Allow them to retreat! Send boarding parties to the carrier to ensure their compliance! Ready yourselves to receive the returning destroyer!”
There was some grumbling, as the thirst for battle had come upon the Geol’ warriors, but they obeyed their Patriarch. The Kiri’ attack craft hurriedly made way for the larger warships as they jockeyed for new positions, their pulsars still tracking any foe that came too close, but the weapons remained silent.
Seeing that their carrier had struck its colours, and that the Geol’ were accepting the surrender, the embattled destroyer did the same, and was equally left alone. The final destroyer, realising it was horridly outclassed, flipped itself over once more and ran for the voids, its captain having no intention to fight a suicidal battle, nor allow the victorious Geol’ to board and plunder his ship. Upon seeing their escorts stand down, and after receiving a handful of warning shots and growled threats, the freighters broadcasted their surrender as well, lowering their shields in defeat.
Geol’ik jumped out of the shuttle even before it finished landing procedures. Encased in his ancient suit of power armour, he towered over the miniscule Kiri’. His landing, accompanied by the noise of several hundred kilos of meat and armour impacting on the metallic floor, almost sent the small aliens running.
He grinned broadly, satisfied at their frightened response and doubly so that his helmet covered his fangs, allowing him to visually display his satisfaction. The small creatures were cowed into disobedience, too frightened to put up a fight. Not that many of them would have to begin with, the majority of the Kiri’ aboard were workers, not warriors, which meant they were not to be killed. Geol’ traditions left no room for debate there.
Given how much they trembled at the sight of him and his warriors, it was clear that they did not know that. Given Geol’ian’s actions, he did not begrudge them that, though he wept for the stain on his race the fallen clan leader had caused.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“You will not be harmed,” he shouted, his voice exploding outward of his helmet, the acoustics of the large cargo bay amplifying it further. “We will permit you safe passage. I swear this on my ancestors.” He pointed towards one of the largest shuttles, with passageways far too restrictive for any Geol’ to fit in. “This shuttle will be yours to take.” He saw the diminutive Kiri’ gaze up at him in fear and grimaced. “Take your valuables with you. Take food, clothes, and all you need. The cargo is ours.”
When they stayed where they were, not moving, he sighed, unfastened the clips on his helmet, and took it off. “Your personal effects are of no importance to us,” he told them, a low growl accompanying his words. He ignored how the creatures reared back. “We claim the cargo,” he whispered, more for his clan than for the Kiri’. “Nothing else. The crew goes free.”
He turned and faced his warriors. Some regarded him coolly, granting him respectful nods. Others looked content. Some looked resentful, and he made note of them as their eyes glanced over the feeble Kiri’. Some simply looked confused. He gave them a strict glare, meeting their eyes. There would be no more deviations from sacred tradition. “We are Lawbreakers,” he proclaimed loudly and proudly. “Not monsters.”
Geol’Seryan grinned from eye to eye as the reports of the ambush came in, letting out a feminine laugh as she pulled up her communicator. She could forward the reports, of course, but there was no fun in that. She settled herself in and opened a few other tabs, knowing it might take a while before her hidden master would respond.
It turned out that she was right, as it wasn’t until two hours later that she received an incoming call herself. She opened it in a heartbeat, shoving the endless files with financial statements aside for now.
“Mi’Sivi!” she warmly greeted the Witch Lord, digging through a mountain of tabs before she found the vid screen. Then she froze. He was looking… bad. As if his soul had been sucked out of his body. There was a weariness in his eyes that spoke of a deep, all-encompassing exhaustion that she had never seen before. Whenever they met, be it through calls or in the flesh, he was vibrant, full of life and ambition. To see him bereft of this was disconcerting, to say the least.
“Are you alright?”
He gave a conciliatory wave. “I will live.”
“What happened?” she growled. She tried to repress her baser instincts that urged her to search for those who had inflicted such hurt on one she so deeply cared for, and to roast their livers before devouring them while they still breathed, but it was hard. He looked worse than she had ever seen him.
He closed his eyes. A shadow seemed to play over the feed and a dark giggle drifted in from somewhere, before both disappeared as he reopened them. A fraction of the usual strength returned to him. “This is not something you need to concern yourself with. Ever.”
The words were whispered, a level of severity to it that she had only rarely heard before. The sound of it caused her mane to bristle and her skin to pale. She could recall every occasion she had. When he spoke such, people listened and obeyed. When he spoke such, it typically announced the deaths of thousands, or those of select individuals. The latter never went in peaceful manners.
She gave a singular, firm nod, moving away from the subject. The Witch Lord had his secrets. She knew some of them, but was not arrogant enough to believe herself of such importance that he would not see her dead in a heartbeat should she press him on this.
So she moved on, pretending his bone-weary exhaustion was not there, and she treated him as Mi’Sivi instead. She forced her grin back on her face. “I have news for you.”
“Do tell,” came the forced reply. There was a weak smile on his face as he indulged in her theatrics.
“The ambush went off splendidly. The escorts have reached safety, only one destroyer having suffered damage. Rumours shall soon spread. The crew were spared, the surrender respected. He took his due of the warships, weapons and munitions, but nothing more. He respected traditions true and through, as it behaves the Geol’.”
She saw fire return to his eyes as the Witch Lord righted himself in his chair. “That is good. Excellent, even. I take it he did not touch the crew or warriors at all?”
She nodded happily. “And rumour is spreading rapidly. It has been a while since a merciful lawbreaker has appeared.”
A broad grin spread on the Witch Lord’s face. Despite his reputation for viciousness, cruelty and remorselessness, security companies escorting convoys were more likely to surrender to an attack of the pirates flying his flag. He led his criminal cartels like a businessman. People who knew a fair surrender was on the table were less likely to fight to the death. As such, from early on the Witch Lord, or whoever had held the title before the current one had inherited the mantle, they had made a two-fold rule. Surrender, and be treated with terms that were almost generous. Betray that surrender, and a horrible death would await, even if the lawbreakers had to pay a heavy toll in turn.
It was a simple rule, and kept piracy relatively civil and on the cheap. No vast amount of ammunition wasted, no need for significant repairs at what passed for shipyards, no expensive recruitment drives to make up for lost men. Only the companies truly suffered, though given that they did operate in the fringes, this had, on more than one occasion, condemned some smaller economies to total collapse.
“That is good news. Any information on a potential retaliatory strike?” Frowns of worry creased his face, the exhaustion making them seem worse.
“It’s a mixed bag, for now,” she easily replied. Her agents within the Kiri’Kou had reported that the nobles were engaging in aggressive debates in how to treat the theft. “As usual, they’re pulling in every direction all at once. Admiral Kar’la’kiri wants to hunt them down, and his voice carries weight. He seems to be pulling together quite a force, even though he has yet to receive permission. I am not yet convinced he will receive it.”
“Are none of them commenting on how easily Geol’ik’s forces tore their fighter escorts to shreds? I would expect an admiral to be wary of that. Even more so given his fleet’s constitution.”
Her brows furrowed. She recalled reading that in one of the messages her agents had sent her, but she had paid it no heed. She was not military. “Now that you mention it, that does seem strange.”
“Find out why. I will gladly take either incompetence or arrogance, but if it is something else, we will need to act. What is the size of his current fleet, and the expected total?”
“I… Don’t know,”
“Any plans of attack you have discovered? Strategies they were discussing? Where they intend to strike?”
“I will have to find out.”
Dark clouds of displeasure gathered on the Witch Lord’s face, before he forced them to evaporate, to her relief. “Try and do so, but do not expose yourself. If the situation evolves beyond your ability to control, contact me. I will run interference if need be.”
“I can cause a great deal of distraction myself, Mi’Sivi.” She ran her hands through her braided mane, trying to force it back down. Jealousy and anger simmered within her. It was not often the Witch Lord himself deigned to expose himself to the world to directly aid his subordinates, and the fact that he felt the need to present it as an option wounded her pride.
“I am more than capable of distracting the dear Admiral. There are heartstrings aplenty for my hands to pull on. His hatred for Geol’, and for me in specific, is an ill kept secret.”
“No,” came the curt reply. The Witch Lord turned his head and had a quiet conversation with someone off screen. “The risk to you is too high. The Admiral is not stable enough. You are not an asset I would risk lightly.” A brief, paternal smile lit up his dark eyes. “And I would much miss your company.”
Another ripple through her mane, this one of pride and joy. “Flatterer,” she growled gently. Then she leaned forward and became fully serious. “I will see to it that if, if, his fleet receives permission to engage in a hunt, it will be much diminished. I will ensure false intel about the strength of the Givrain is spread. The Patriarch will be kept up to date on the movements of the fleet, should it depart. Your involvement will not be necessary.”
The smile returned and remained this time. “Thank you, Seryan. I look forward to hearing from you again.”
She grinned her teeth bare and gave him a small wave, before the connection cut. She got out of her chair, stretching and enjoyed feeling her muscles pop her vertebrae back in place, when a small beep pulled her back to down to the screens. A small data-packet, sender unknown —of course— had arrived, accompanied by a blank mail that was devoid of anything except a single semicolon and a parenthesis. She opened it, and her three eyes widened as she took in its contents.
“Yaneer!” she roared, her trusted aide appearing in a heartbeat. The male stood at seventeen feet, an enormous Geol’ specimen, yet despite his height he was a merchant at heart, and utterly harmless despite his gargantuan size.
“Mistress?” the giant asked with his gentle voice.
“Gather my council. We have much to trade, and little time to do it in.”
“Ah,” the sharp-witted male smiled, knowing the dance all too well. “I shall see it done.”
“I told you it was a good idea!” a drunk Geo’Yvera roared at the elderly quartermaster, the mug in her hand narrowly holding as she slammed it down on the table. “And you wouldn’t have it!”
The older male huffed, glaring down angrily at her general direction. His sight, already weakened by age, was now wholly obscured by the copious amounts of alcohol he had consumed since the start of the celebrations.
Geol’ik laughed as another warrior clapped his wife on her back, which she took as a challenge. One solid punch later, he roared encouragements as the pair engaged in the noble art of drunken wrestling. The laughter redoubled when his wife, finding herself bereft of her usual agility, was thrown over the table she was seated at, and onto another, much to the dismay of those who were seated there. They responded to her presence by emptying their own mugs over her head, before shouting at her to fetch more for them. Having lost, she roared and uttered threats of violence, but complied.
All around the feast-hall of the Ra’bauw the Geol’ were feasting. Warrior and crew alike were drowning themselves in roasted meat, kept frozen specifically for such purposes, and a myriad of alcoholic beverages imported from the homeworlds of the members of the clan.
Coloured banners dotted the walls, each indicating a family and their noble history. Often they depicted glorious ancestors with their direct kin, or heroic actions they had performed. Tales of times long gone were swapped, mugs were emptied and refilled, roasts were prepared and devoured and males and females engaged in matrimonial combat. Many young Geo’ and Geol’ would wake in the morning with both headaches and offers of marriage, should they impress one of the older veterans.
Beside him, early on in her pregnancy and functioning as the overseer of the mayhem that was the Geol’ feast, was Geo’Arina. The tiny Geo’ was giving orders to the Geo’ too pregnant to participate, directing them with the same fine control she displayed when fixing engines. Occasionally she left her husband to partake in the revelry and friendly wrestling to walk through the halls herself, attending to some tasks here and there. Even between the rowdiest bands of boasting warriors she felt perfectly at ease, for no Geol’ would ever harm a pregnant female.
Geol’ik pulled her onto his lap, enjoying her soft mane and curves as he let his hands gently roam across the small rounding that was forming on her body. He drank from her laugh, and as he looked into her bright and cheerful eyes, he thanked the ancestors once again for their victory.
They too were not forgotten, and received their fair share of praise, prayers and liquor. More than one match was devoted to them, more than one bard regaled the others of their glorious lives. Even the dead were not left behind, as the warriors and crew openly wept over the friends they had lost, while celebrating all the harder as they tried to feast their share as well. Their life-stories were told, and all who knew them listened raptly.
It was a feast that had not happened in years, for Geol’ian had held them at his leisure or when the desire struck him. Now it was done honourable, and clan Givrain indulged in the event all the more. It was a day of merriment, of joy, of being grateful, of returning to the roots of what it meant to be Geol’. As time passed, even those with other duties were not spared. Cooks were stolen away from their fires and into dances. Old and weathered scribes were kidnapped from their darkened archives and dragged singing and cajoling into the light. Smiths and engineers were pulled away from their tasks, their spanners and hammers discarded and exchanged for mugs and meat.
Only the sentries were left alone, their honourable task elevating them beyond the others as they ensured the safety of those who relished in the essence of what it meant to be Geol’.
Geol’ik himself, his status of Patriarch temporarily mattering not, was soon pulled off his throne and into the mayhem. He fought bravely and with skill, but even so he was soon enough buried under a dozen others, invisible but for his booming laughter.
Into the night it went, the Geol’ feasting, drinking, fighting and flirting. Tomorrow they would return to their strict hierarchical structures. For now they were free, all equal, and all bound by the unity of their clan. For now they freely shared in prosperity, in being alive and in venerating those who had gone before them.
As such it was with a heavy head that Geol’ik awoke to a shrill beeping sound. He forced himself out of bed, his mind still clouded, his arms still weighing like lead. It took him long, far too long, having to extract himself from a tangle of limbs that were reluctant to see him part.
He dragged himself to the basin, dunking his head into the water to force some clarity into it, before moving on to the source of the noise. He opened his communicator and read the incoming message.
Ice was poured into his veins as his mind parsed the message. Everything he had feared was coming true. He read it again. And again. And again, but the contents refused to change.
All the lingering joy that he had felt from the day before was banished from his mind as he realised what was coming his way. At the cost of what would befall the clan.
The consequences of my own actions, he realised, the thought sending a violent shiver through his body and a bristle through his mane.
He punched open the com lines to the rest of the ship.
“Marshall every warrior,” he said, hoping his voice sounded more commanding than he felt it did.
“Givrain marches to war.”