CHAPTER: DOMITOR THRAYADES
Mausoleum, Umbral Dawn, Scandar Venom-Class Cruiser
City of Hassoon, Planet Jawhara, Eobaria System
December 17, 2771
Glory was within reach, yet Thrayades still felt empty. This world had no planetary defenses, no standing armies, not even an armed law enforcement. This was the hubris of bleeding hearts, he well knew. The consequence of civilization bending to accommodate the weak and the cowardly. He should be relishing such a swift victory, but something ate at him. Why did he feel no satisfaction? He pondered this as he knelt in prayer within his flagship’s mausoleum, wearing only a tabard from his waist-down, unadorned with armor or war paint in this most sacred of places. His lipless mouth hung slightly open, his protruding lower mandibles and smaller upper pincers trembling as he took in a breath. Before him laid an altar of twelve basins, each holding gray or black ashes. Along the walls of his chamber, the holographic displays of a dozen other Scandar in full warrior’s habit stood proudly in pale green light.
“I call upon you now,” he bowed his head. “Great Martyrs of our Blooded Sand, I kneel to your honor. I ask you to show me the way through this uncertainty.”
He looked uneasily between the basins, holding the remains of his twelve fallen kinsmen. The back four held his uncles, who fell in righteous crusade. The two pairs on the left and right flanks, his four nephews, found glory ramming their gunships into enemy vessels when they could not overcome them. Then came the final four in front of him, for his three brothers and his father. The exemplars of the House of Thunder, greatest feudal house of all Scandar nobility, but denied their place in the line of martyrs. For them, there would be no great battle to give their lives. Instead, they bore witness to the desecration of their people’s dignity. Forced to see their sovereign kneel before a kingdom of coddled pacifists and flaccid elites.
When Morgos surrendered to the United Planets.
It burned Thrayades’ insides, knowing that while he rallied his fleet to counterattack, his father and brothers had to watch the cowed masses of the soft and unworthy demand submission of the supreme warrior race…and see the Grand Archon capitulate. Accept defeat without battle. In an instant, the ruler of all Scandar proved he was never fit for power — a true Scandar would spit on the offer of peaceful surrender. A true Scandar would honor his brothers by upholding a righteous war until the last star went out. Thrayades knew the truth, as did many of his brethren: the soft masses of the Skyfield were too intimidated to watch Scandar march and conquer as fate willed them to. He thought the Archon knew this, too, but on that day, the armies and navies of all Morgos were ordered to stand down, from their farthest colonies to their very seat of power. The Archon invited United Planets diplomats into the capital fortress, let them violate the Father World with their filthy footsteps, to discuss terms of surrender.
Thrayades’ only regret was taking his fleet on a distant flanking maneuver, for if he’d been there, he would’ve crashed the Umbral Dawn into the capital himself. Saved the honor of his people at the last moment, and blessed his father and brothers with an eternal war in his name.
But it was not to be. His kinsmen were denied the Martyr’s End, leaving them no choice but to retain their honor by ritual suicide. The deed was done before Thrayades could make it home, but servants informed him of his father’s final testament: a day would come when the honor of Morgos could be redeemed, and it would fall upon an Exceptional Few to take back their way of life. Thrayades knew, without boast nor pride, that he was one such Exceptional.
Calgasus thought himself one as well, but he was a coward at heart. No true Scandar would consort with inferior races to have a fighting chance…but he had to work with the tools he was given. Even Thrayades had found utility in the members of the Aphelion Pact, but he could never call them equals. Non-Scandar could never be his peers, the law of nature forbade it. They were useful for now, but they would never stand in the light with him when the time came.
At last, his day in the light lay ahead, and he found himself in the mausoleum today.
“This world…” he struggled to get the words out, “This system. It has fallen before our glory, without a fight. They of course could not win, even if they fought to the last, but…that they did not even try…it leaves this conquest hollow. While this is only the first step in a larger campaign, I am wary. What measure is a warrior if his opponent does not fight back? I…it cannot be true. They must have a strike force lying in wait. I will rout them, drag them into the light and crush them into—” his trembling, raspy breath grew rapid and uncontrolled, he felt nerves tingling in his face as his emotions overcame him.
This was his weakness again rearing its head — Grief, he lamented, a symptom of the soft-hearted. He tipped forward, pressing his fists to the stone floor to center himself. He drove the fracturing sensation in his chest downward, condensed it into his belly until it was numb. This part of him needed to be eradicated, without hesitation and without pity. The part of him that longed to have them back. That dreamed to train with his brothers again, hear his father’s wisdom again, share dinner as a clan once again in their banquet hall — No! Thrayades punched the ground, stone cracking beneath his fist.
This weakness could not overcome him. He had to cut it out like infected flesh. Only then could he be what his destiny required: cleansed of uncertainty. Without compromise. Unyielding. Pure.
“Domitor,” an aged voice interrupted — that of his second in command, Pavium Silvereye. Thrayades froze in his position, and from the tension in the air, it seemed Pavium had as well, knowing he interrupted his commander in a moment of obvious import.
Thrayades released a raspy breath. “Geronto,” he hesitated, addressing him by rank in his moment of alarm. He sat up taller and turned to his old Blademaster and troubadour. “Come, old friend,” he corrected, waving Pavium closer. “What news?”
“One of the occupied leaders has surrendered herself to us, Domitor,” the elder Scandar reported, halting a few paces away. “A human female, a Senator in the United Planets.”
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Thrayades grumbled. “A ploy, to be sure. Bring her to the heart of our stronghold planetside and commence a paean; sing of our victory. I will be down immediately.”
“At once, Domitor,” Pavium nodded before kneeling and placing one arm over his chest, the other stretched out down his side, as if holding a sword. “Blood to our Fathers,” he saluted before exiting.
“Yes…blood…and ash…” He thrust his hands into the ash altar, dragging them through the remnants of his uncles, then beat the dust onto both arms. “Uncles, gone to your end as warriors…be my strength of arms,” he declared. He then put his hands into the ashes along the furthest row of basins and clapped the dust onto his back. “Nephews, swift and certain in your path to martyrdom…be the wind at my back,” he went on, fervent and religious.
He held over the basins of his three brothers, before delicately tracing the tips of his claws through them, then carving three lines onto the front of his exposed sternum — not piercing his exoskeleton, but enough to draw blood and smear the ashes across the cuts, leaving three black trails down his chest. “Brothers…” he began, heart growing heavier, “Brothers…You are never far from me. Your fury and courage were never able to burn bright…but they endure through me. Let your zeal be mine. Let my wrath be yours.”
At last, he knelt before his father’s ashes and gently laid his forehead upon them. He leaned back up and drew his thumb through the ash and trail it along his head. “Father…your wisdom went unheeded when our leaders needed it most…I will not fail you as they did. Be my clarity of mind. Cleanse me of doubt.”
He rose, donning his armor over of the ashes, securing the breathing apparatus around his mouth and drawing his hood up before striding tall towards the exit.
“You fell to reclaim your honor. I was left to live in disgrace…Today, I reclaim the honor of us all.”
THEY BURNED THE GARDEN. IT WASN’T THAT LARGE, ONLY A THIRD THE space of the Outreach Pavilion. It didn’t feed that many people, it was more a microcosm for the pavilion’s promise of sustainability. It wasn’t an important landmark, and it wasn’t meant to be — but still, the Scandar bathed it with fire.
Dirana slowed to watch it burn, sadness welling up in her belly, but climbing no higher. She couldn’t let them see this hurting her — not the invaders, nor the imprisoned people of Jawhara.
Standing atop the steps before the garden was an older Scandar, somewhat hunched, with a dull brown chitin exoskeleton rather than the earthy green of the rest, and a milky eye. This struck Dirana for a moment; it wasn’t customary to see old Scandar given their propensity for martyrdom, but this elder clearly occupied some kind of reverent ceremonial role, as he led a chorus of eerie, raspy chants from many of the other soldiers. From what she remembered studying, paeans such as this were once Scandar tradition in their colonizing days.
Whoever these invaders were, they were clearly admirers of the past.
Hundreds of terrified humans, Neumerians, Aksani and Kashar of all ages, and a few older Tregian volunteer builders were corralled into energy fences, tall steel posts linked by crackling green energy lines, spurred on by Scandar soldiers with Railcaster rifles or barbed truncheons, the Stinger Chains reserved for higher command, such as the elder leading the paean.
The soldier at Dirana’s back shoved her forward and she stumbled, off balance with her hands restrained, but she didn’t make a sound at the mounting despair around her. She couldn’t give the Scandar the satisfaction of her heartache, but more importantly, she couldn’t be seen faltering in front of the people she served. They were scared, and they had a right to be — but she didn’t have the luxury. If one of the leaders of Jawhara was marched across the town square broken and sobbing, the people’s spirit might flicker, but their fate probably wouldn’t change. But if they saw her upright and composed, there was some chance they might think she knew what she was doing, and she could get them out of this.
That’s mostly what leadership was, she’d found out.
She made eye contact with as many people behind the energy fence as she could, but had difficulty watching the soldiers harm them. She was not alone in safeguarding their spirits, however: every now and then, a Tregian volunteer stood between the soldiers and any civilians they saw fit to punish. They didn’t start a fight, but simply put themselves in front of the vulnerable. Dira was glad to have them, as despite their stoic temperaments, they remained as protective and brave as their old empire once boasted. Their intimidating size clearly provoked the Scandar — clearly off guard when they couldn’t rely on physical intimidation.
An officer among the Scandar tried to make an example of one Tregian, stepping forward with his barbed baton. The Tregian folded his hands in front of him and looked down on the officer with calm resolute, as if politely inviting him to reconsider. The officer clicked with frustration from behind his respirator and whacked the Tregian across the face…and bent the baton. The Tregian didn’t laugh or grin, but just sighed; disappointed but not surprised. The officer snarled in turn and drew his sidearm, but a command in the hissing Scandar language cut through the air, and the officer halted.
All eyes turned to the central stone courtyard of the pavilion, where he stood. Taller than most Scandar, sporting ornate black armor and a crimson cloak with squared shoulders and a hood. Dirana recognized him from news footage and history regs: Domitor Thrayades. He had something of a reputation — he was no Malim Kagan, but his name had weight. She swallowed and exhaled as her captor again nudged her forward, now ten feet from the Domitor. They held silent, taking each other in, before the Domitor paced closer.
“Allow me to guess,” his vocoder translated, “You’ve come to negotiate the cessation of hostilities on your planet?”
“Actually, I’ve already laid out my terms,” she replied. “I’ve come to make an accord.”
“Is that so?” Thrayades scoffed. “You have no bargaining power.”
“No, I don’t. You or any of your warriors could kill me as easily as drawing breath. I am not a worthy combatant in strength of arms — but you would only kill my body. My mind and my will would hold to my last. What achievement is that?”
“The silencing of a grating voice, as a start.”
“And the creation of a martyr,” she countered. The Domitor’s eyes locked gravely on her at the mention of the word. Her lip curled up slightly. She had him. “Yes, a public execution of a United Planets Senator who stood defiant in her final seconds. I can see it now: ‘Justice for Dirana,’ it’ll make an excellent slogan.”
The Domitor stomped closer and loomed over her, poised to lean down and bite her head off. “You are…spirited, I see.”
“I’m sure you think you can break my spirit.”
“I know I can.”
“Then I propose a contest of wills. Take me and only me. Forestall any efforts of interrogation on the people here until I give out.
He scoffed, “Do you really think these pacifist long-swine have anything worthwhile to say?”
She looked him up and down with pity. “Nothing to you,” she threw back. He clicked with anger and his slit pupils drew inward, reaching to the Stinger Chain on his back, but she strode even closer, now looking up at him less than a foot away. “Go ahead,” she dared. Thrayades hesitated, apparently taken aback from such audacity in a human. “Kill me on my feet, looking you in the eye. Throw away anything I might know from a career in the United Planets Assembly, and make me live forever. Or…” she tilted her head and stepped back, “Win your answers from me. You conquered us without battle. That can’t be easy for one of your standing, Domitor. So I offer you the catharsis you seek; a chance to earn your supremacy over Jawhara. You want a resistance to crush? I can’t give you that on the battlefield — how about in the mind?”
The Domitor tilted his head. It wasn’t respect, to be sure, but he huffed in approval and leaned down to her level.
“I will break you by week’s end.”
Got him.