The day was overcast, chosen that way specifically by the people manning the Planetary Weather Control. There was a light blustery wind, a chill that cut through the jacket, vest, and flank sash. The clouds were low and heavy with bluish lightning snarling deep inside. They no longer held the threat of fallout or radioactive rain, the Terran nanotech doing its job quickly to clean the radiation from the air, ground, and water. The lightning was a byproduct of the nanites discharging, but it completed the look for the dreary gray day.
The entire capital was hushed. The main road from the starport to the nearly founded Grand Mausoleum of History was blocked off on the sides, armored sec-beings moving back and forth to keep the crowds back. For the crowd's part, they were mostly weeping, many kneeling, with crying children throwing small flowers out toward the black grav-cars that slowly moved by, pulled by ancient draft animals despite having their own motors.
It wasn't all the dead of the fierce fighting to save the Artcarick, there were far too many to have a procession for all of them. It wasn't even all the dead humans. No, that was impossible. Across the entire stellar system there were only two humans left of the thousands who had defended the system with their very lives.
They had died within days of the final fight, leaving behind shocked and grieving Digital Sentiences and silent wargear. It was as if without battle, their spirits simply abandoned their bodies. They had slumped down, fallen over, and in a few cases, had seizures.
And then they were gone.
At first it was feared there was betrayal or an attack by the Unified Council.
Then the terrible word had come.
It was everywhere. In less than a standard week the human race was nearly extinct.
Two remained in the Artcarick System. One a low ranking infantryman, the other a Space Force Naval Officer. Both of them appeared on the Tri-Vee often, looking washed out, their eyes haunted, almost like ghosts that had not left the party.
And so the grav-cars slowly moved down the main avenue of the capital, heading for the Grand Mausoleum. Bodies of Maktanan, Carikan, Lanaktallan, Telkan, Rigellian, Treana'ad, Mantid, and Humans were inside. All of them with a list of deeds and heroism. Pictures of the dead were projected by holograms from the top of the vehicles. More than a few of the population of the planet held tight to their own pictures, alive only by the determination of the dead.
Mana'aktoo stood in a viewing box, roughly ten meters of the ground, his father and sisters and mother with him. Across from him Planetary Armed Forces Grand Most High Kulamu'u stood in a box with his wife and children. The elderly Lanaktallan was wearing black already.
His father had died in his sleep during the fighting, passing on, in some ways Mana'aktoo felt grateful for, calm and safe and dreaming.
The caravan was approaching. The Lanaktallan had no customs for such ceremony. The dead were dumped into incinerators or reclaimers and no more thought was ever given to them.
But the Terran Confederacy of Aligned Systems, of which the Artcarick system was now a signatory of, had customs to honor the dead and give the living a sense of closure.
The lead vehicle was drawn by a stocky reptile that had once been used by the Maktanan to plow fields. Four of them, their scales polished, pulled the hover-limo forward. On the front was the Artcarick flag, carefully arranged on the hood. Above the top was holos of children at play, females of all races smiling and engaged in activities, workers at work, and elderly beings.
The windows were not tinted, so that the crowd could see the back of the limo was empty.
The custom that the people of Artcarick had adopted insisted that the empty vehicle, signifying the uncountable dead civilians in a war, was to always go first. It was empty for all the bodies that would never be found and the stories that would never be known.
There was something, Mana'aktoo thought, something strangely melancholy about a simple rigid substance pulled tight across a steel ring and then tapped upon by plastic tipped sticks. The staccato rapping of the drum, a steady, almost monotone rhythm, the way the young Maktanan child marched in time with his tapping, seemed to echo off the buildings like thunder.
Mana'aktoo could see the unshed tears in the child's eyes as he drew near.
The System Most High in Exile straighten up and saluted as the child marched by, looking straight ahead and never to either side, his 'drum' tapping.
His mother and sisters began to softly weep as the first vehicle went by.
It began to drizzle, a misty, almost nebulous thing, as the next vehicle went by.
Admiral Schmidt, the Terran that most of the population felt was the being who had defended the system successfully, was in the hologram. The hologram rotated slowly, showing Schmidt in his dress uniform, then obviously on the bridge of some kind of warship engaged in combat, then standing with a woman and several children, then standing with Most High in Exile Mana'aktoo and his mother.
It made something inside of Mana'aktoo ache that the talented and interesting lemur had died.
I liked him, he thought to himself.
The next was System Defense Second Most High Plu'umo'o. The rotating hologram showed the Lanaktallan in dress uniform, galloping across a sunny grassy field, and then, holding a Terran rifle in his hands shooting at Precursor machines and yelling into a headset.
The Lanaktallan had been rallying the Carikan troops, who had almost buckled beneath the onslaught of metal, when he had been struck by a high-vee round and killed.
A waste of talent that could have led our people far, Mana'aktoo thought.
His sister wept at the sight of her betrothed on the hologram. She had promised Mana'aktoo that, if he returned from war, she would marry him.
She wore black and had sworn that she would never wear anything else.
The population of the system were already calling her The Filly Widow.
A little green mantid was next. The equation was long, almost incomprehensible. It had taken Mana'aktoo nearly three hours to puzzle it out. The relation between the time it took to overcharge your credit line and the proximity to gambling machines. The handy nickname had been 125, and everyone had called him "Buck and a quarter" for some strange reason. He was shown as a tiny mantid, then working on medical equipment, again working on an air conditioner, then teaching a class of Maktanan students about mathematics. Then the final picture. On the shoulder of a warborg, firing a missile launcher. He represented all green mantids lost.
Mana'aktoo's mother grasped him, holding tight, burying her face in his vest, and cried as more limos went by.
Finally, after an eternal moment, the last one went by. As per Terran custom, it had the lowest ranking of the dead. A nineteen year old Private from Terra. The final images of him were of him jumping out of his fighting position and running to where the two Maktanan anti-armor gunners had been killed, lifting the anti-armor weapon, and facing six Precursor heavy AWM's.
He had killed three of the six, giving his unit time to bring their firepower to bear on the others, before he had been hit and killed by a heavy PPC.
His mother sobbed.
A black mantid followed, a decorative bandage on his head covering one eye, stained red, tapping on a drum with his bladearms.
The procession was past.
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Speeches were next. How the people still lived. How the planet endured. How it was a new day forward. Mana'aktoo stood stoically, silent, and many who watched it on Tri-Vee wondered what the Most High in Exile was thinking as he held his sobbing mother.
Finally it was over, and Mana'aktoo stood and watched as important people filed out of their boxes, and the weeping and solemn crowd left. When his guards told him it was time, he left, accompanying his family to his manor.
He trotted to his private study and stood there, staring at the night sky through the windows, his mind a whirl of images and emotions.
His control slipped.
He turned, grabbed the heavy monitor on his desk, turned, and threw it through the window. The glass shattered, letting in the rain and wind, glass and the monitor flying out to hit the ground outside the window.
Guards burst in, weapons drawn, and lights came on, illuminating the yard, highlighting the monitor laying on the ground.
"Are you all right, Most High?" the Maktanan guard asked.
"A temporary lapse of self control," Mana'aktoo said. "My apologies for alarming the guard."
The Maktanan nodded, withdrawing, and using his comlink to let everyone know it was a false alarm.
Mana'aktoo took a deep, shuddering breath, and let it out explosively.
He trotted out, heading for the command center.
The dead had been laid to rest, now he had to watch over the living.
-----------------------
The morning was sunny and warm, a light breeze carrying the smell of flowers to the parade field. The entire Brigade was drawn up in dress uniform in razor straight lines. The only weapons were swords, although here and there a soldier had a Terran chainsword on their hip. At the head of the formation was a Most High, who watched as his adjutant called out names. The name was then called out by the Battalion Commander, then the Company Commander.
"Private Second Class Palgret Two Nine Five Two Two," the adjutant called out.
The Maktanan Private took a single step back, looked both ways, then made a left face, toward the shorter end of the platoon block he was in. He moved mechanically, parade ground movements, up to stand next to his Platoon Leader. Together, they moved to the Company Commander and waited.
After ten seconds, it became obvious, through tradition, that nobody else would be called up.
Palgret followed his officers to the front of the Brigade, standing between the two Lanaktallan. The Lieutenant was on his right, a long gash that never seemed to heal down the side of his face, held together by crude loops of warsteel wire. The award for valor glittered on Lieutenant Mu'ucru'u's sash.
Palgret swallowed around a lump in his throat, very aware of the human cutting bar on his hip.
He didn't remember the human handing it to him, but it had been in his gear when he had been released from the hospital.
The words were a buzz to him. Boarded. Hellspace. Rescued. Drew the enemy from a shelter. Mar-gite. Precursors. Shrieking Array. The Void. Marduk.
It all blurred together, images flashing in his mind of the hellish journey.
THERE IS NO LIFE IN THE VOID went through his mind and he swayed slightly.
He was accepting not only his own award, but the award for his dead cousin Culvit.
Mercy, brother, the Terran's rumble echoed in Palgret's memory.
The Brigade Commander saluted him and instinct made him salute back even though his mind was far away and long ago.
It's a weapon, it's supposed to hurt when it's fired
He's a Terran, what, you've never seen one before?
BRRT!
At ease that shit, Two.
FRAG OUT!
GIVE IT TO 'EM, RED DEVILS!
The Lieutenant had to guide him back and he stumbled twice.
"Easy, Private, easy," the Lieutenant said. "It's almost over then you can put it behind you."
Palgret nodded, jerkily, and made his way back to his spot.
More awards were given out. Valor in the face of the enemy.
Twice he had to squeeze shut his eyes when the sound of weapons fire in the distance reached him.
Finally it was over and Palgret returned to his room. He undressed slowly and then stood there, naked, staring at the sash on his uniform.
He honestly couldn't remember what the ribbons and pieces of metal meant or why he had them.
He went over, sat on his bed, put his face in his hands and wept.
-----------------
DEAR: Uln-Var, Revered Mother
Something terrible has happened. Some how the enemy, not the Lanaktallan, but a new one, has struck at the humans.
They are all dead.
I've heard the guards talking. Entire fleets, entire armies, wiped out. Planets empty of everything but corpses.
I cried for hours when I realized that the little human girl I'd never met, who someday wanted to sail ships across the Great Glass Sea of her home, must be dead. I mourned deeply for someone I have never met, and the universe feels a little darker with her absence.
The humans are dead.
And I hate myself that this terrible news brings about something that fills me with joy.
The Confederate Military Forces can no longer dedicate the manpower to maintain this POW camp.
We're coming home.
All of us.
They say we can have this planet if we want, but right now, we can't stay. This letter will go out on the fastboat, the last mail courier from here.
My stuff is packed, and I'm merely waiting my turn to board.
I can't wait to see you.
I'm tired of war.
Respect and Honor: Del'Var, your male child
---------------------
The window was open, letting the breeze in to the little house surrounded by sugargrass and a small vegetable garden. At the table a female N'Karoo, kneading dough to make little biscuits. She was humming along to the song on the little radio on the counter, every once in a while glancing up to look at the sky.
The air had begun to smell sweet again. Rotting kelp no longer washed up, instead healthy green kelp that tasted good brewed into a proper tea. The fishers were catching fish again, the night was alive with the sound of insects again.
A knock at the door made her look up. She stood up as the knock sounded again, wondering who in the village might be visiting her. She clapped the sugargrass flour off her paws, marvelling again at how her fur had returned, and moved to the door.
"I'm coming, just a minute," she called out. Her slippers whispered on the hand woven carpet as she hurried to the door.
When she opened it it took her a moment to realize who was standing there.
He was dressed in his military uniform. His face was tired in some strange way, but lit up by happiness.
"MAMA!" the N'Karoo cried out, stepping forward and gathering up the female in a hug.
"Del'Var," the female sobbed, holding tight to her son that she had feared was lost forever.
Behind them the mailman put an envelope into the mailbox. On the edge could be read "OFFICIAL WAR DEPARTMENT CORRESPONDENCE - OFFICE OF THE POW ADMIN".
On the beach, the waves lapped against the white sand, as it had before, and as it was learning to do again beneath the gentle hand of the Elves.
---------------------
The planet was part of the Harmonus Empire, ruled over by the ruthless but fair Darth Harmonus and his fearsome Grand Moffs. It had been taken early, one of the first ten the Empire had taken over and subjugated. Life had changed greatly for those who lived there. No longer was there fear, misery, deprivation, and cruelty.
The Imperial Legal Code was simple enough for any to read. eVI could advise anyone about any questions they had regarding the rules and laws.
Which pretty much boiled down to "Don't be an asshole."
Or, as Uncle Mikey would put it: "Be good to one another."
The hab-block had improved greatly. It was colored a pleasing pastel blue, which the Lanaktallan appreciated. The gardens around it were well tended and colorful and pleasing to view and interact with. Gone was the graffiti and the smell of urine from the hallways, which were brightly lit with polished tile instead of dank and miserable.
The Lanaktallan who moved down the sidewalk, looking around at everything with wide eyes, could not believe what he was seeing.
He was wearing the uniform of the Unified Military Council, he had three cybereyes on the left side of his head. He walked slowly, his limbs stiff and painful. On either side were white armored Imperial Stormtroopers, both with orange pauldrons on their shoulders.
They were there to make sure there were no misunderstandings.
"What happened here?" the Lanaktallan asked, staring at the hab-block he had grown up in.
"The Empire arrived," one of the Storm Troopers said.
"I lived there all my life, it never looked like that," the Lanaktallan said.
"Do you need a moment?" the Stormtrooper asked, shifting slightly.
"No. I am eager to go inside," the Lanaktallan said.
He had asked why the Empire had not been affected by the mass die off of Terrans. He didn't understand it completely, but apparently it had something to do with Gen-Zero DNA coding and the lack of prosthetics. Something about their cloning genesis seed being from something called the Holy 501st of Pre-Glassing Terra that had fought the Mantids.
It had gone over his head.
But he had understood that the sixty million strong Empire might be the last humans in the galaxy, ruled over by the unending wrath of Darth Harmonus, who had defied death as he had defied the Unified Council.
A part of him was glad.
Seeing how happy his fellow Lanaktallan were, how well everyone was treated, he felt slightly ashamed of that feeling.
But he did not deny it. He had learned in therapy not to deny and repress his emotions, merely to control them.
Inside the hab was clean. He could hear Lanaktallan chatting, laughing as he walked slowly to the elevator.
The elevator moved slowly and the Lanaktallan closed his eyes. It was nothing like the hab he had grown up in. He had been startled to find out that one of the first things the Empire did was wipe out the generational debt.
Finally the elevator stopped and the two escorts walked with him to the correct apartment.
One reached forward and pressed the button next to the door.
"Yes?" the filly's voice was not afraid, merely curious, and the Lanaktallan standing in the Unified Military Council uniform was startled.
"Imperial Liaisons here. You have a visitor," they said.
"One moment, please," the filly said and the line clinked as she shut it off.
"It's OK to be nervous, sir," one of the Imperials said to the Lanaktallan.
The Lanaktallan just nodded.
The door opened and the filly looked out, smiling, unafraid. "Yes?" She stopped suddenly, staring at the Lanaktallan in the uniform.
"Moory!" she cried out, dropping the mixing bowl she was holding. The mechanism in the bottom activated and it reoriented, landing base down, as the Lanaktallan filly lunged forward and grabbed her brother, bringing him into a hug. "Oh, Moory, we all heard you were dead!"
Mo'orbys held his sister tightly, closed his eyes, and cried.