A planet orbited a sun.
It was a simple planet, slightly larger than average and containing a bit less water than what was ideal, but all things considered it was charming, in its own way. Several gas giants and a smattering of asteroids orbited alongside the planet, all of them charming and useful in their own ways. Looked at from afar it was a peaceful scene, devoid of conflict or factions. After all, even the greatest of battles are nothing on a cosmic scale.
The peace of the scene was not lost on Misugram. He’d seen many such scenes over the millennia, but he never failed to appreciate each one. The innocence, the peace. Each time, he soaked up that tranquility. He reveled in the quiet moments away from the Empire, away from others' perceptions of morality or conniving words scrambling for some form of leverage.
But each time, the tranquility ended, for that was his purpose. To strip away the peace of independence and bring total obedience.
And so it was, and so it would be.
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“And then- get this- he broke his arm!” A boisterous young man proclaimed.
The small group, dressed in the gray fatigues of techies, nearly fell over laughing, tears streaming down their faces. The station was a remote, quiet place, and any entertainment was better than waiting for an attack that would never happen.
After all, they had a truce with the Empire. The Federation, founded nearly six thousand years ago, was a small group who believed life without magic was the way to go. It wasn’t that they thought magic was evil or anything, just that it brought complications and ambitions that inevitably drove conflict. That’s not to say the Federation, alone in a single system all this time, didn’t have its conflicts. But through all the civil wars and revolts, that core tenet remained.
Until two years ago, the Federation existed in a sealed pocket space. When it was created, such spaces were impossible to force open, making the perfect place to retreat from the multiverse. Then, fifty years ago, the multiverse had shown that magical technology advanced. An envoy had been sent; a peace treaty enacted. The Federation was absolutely nothing in the face of the Empire’s power, but the price required to forcibly takeover was more trouble than it was worth.
Still, paranoia was in order. Anti-magic tech was developed, space stations were set up as outposts as the Federation waited for the slightest indication of violence.
The young man didn’t believe the Empire would attack. In fact, he wondered at the necessity of sealing themselves away from magic. The multiverse was, according to all their textbooks, a wide space. Surely there was enough room for them out there. But still, he had his orders. And the one thing his years of training, psych evals, and conditioning had ensured was that he’d follow orders.
The young man glanced up as a trill rang through the room.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“Those crazy joyriders are at it again.” One of his companions muttered in disgust. “When will they learn not to joke around in Federation Space?”
“Bah, their young. It’ll take a while to bash it through their thick skulls. Besides, the RUS…”
“Ah yes, RUS”
Rich Unkle Syndrome was all too prevalent among those youngsters who owned a starship. After all, getting your hands on such an expensive piece of equipment definitely required family in high places. Still, the young man didn’t get paid to shrug off an alarm.
Grumbling at the paperwork this would cause, he walked over to the terminal and glanced at the little white dot streaking towards the planet below.
Fast.
Like, really fast.
The man blinked in disbelief at what his display was trying to sell him. There was no way some kid with RUS could get his hands on this kind of tech. Heck, he wasn’t sure the Federation had something that could go that fast, not without a good long while to accelerate.
The man’s hands took over, flicking from display to display, verifying and re-verifying the readings. As their sensors got a better look at the thing and AIs modeled its flight origin, the man turned and started barking out orders, all humor gone.
Instilled instincts took over, sending the crew leaping into action.
The man barely noticed as he reached for the phone-that-shall-not-be-used-unless-everything-went-increadibly-sideways.
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“Sir, report from outpost Omicron. Unidentified object approaching at .8C.”
“How far out?” The voice was gruff, the sound matching the grizzled look of a veteran general. His gray hair matched his steely eyes, the man’s strength of will radiating from him in palpable waves.
“Two minutes at current veloci-wait one. One minute- no- thirty seconds” The young officer was on his feet now, eyes wide at the data splayed out before him. “Sure, the object appears to be human sized.
“Zim.” The officer turned, shocked to hear such a curse word from the usually implacable general. Then the general was moving, bellowing out orders in a never-ending torrent of sound.
“Get that shield up! Give me analytics, I want to know more about this cultivator than he knows about himself! Communications, notify all navy vessels that we are in condition Zeus.”
The general hesitated for a moment. He turned to a man sitting quietly in a corner.
“Dr., is it ready?”
“My team is prepping Orichalcum even as we speak, but we need time. The projections gave us several years; uploading the software and outfitting the weaponry will require as much time as you can buy us.”
“I’ll do my best.” The general grimly stated.
Destroyers rotated on the single man, bringing their massive weaponry to bear as a shield, fueled by the bleeding edge of fusion and anti-matter tech, flickered into place around the planet. It was the very pinnacle of their shielding technology, rated to absorb up to and including a category 9 asteroid. Energy pooled and collected, enough power to vaporize small continents tracking the single approaching man.
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Misugram looked at the planet, on the defenses, on the power on display. He smiled grimly before speaking a single word. The word that had driven him to his power, the word feared by all rebels. A word of power, with the unyielding force of law behind it.
“Obey!”