Post by EmperorMyric on Dec 16, 2017 19:11:30 GMT
Oh, the devil will find work for idle hands to do!
---“What Difference Does It Make?”, originally by The Smiths
--oOo--
Space seethed. It was a subtly and misleadingly uniform seething, but it seethed regardless, on scales both large and small. Subatomic stringlets writhed quietly, and atoms bounced, and molecules vibrated and carried sound through the atmospheres of millions of worlds. Beyond that, the flies darted above the seas of countless worlds, only to be devoured by fish (or creatures of similar ilk) which left only eddies rippling after the flies were dead and the deed was done. Above them would soar creatures of unimaginable diversity (for after all, these were millions of worlds; evolution had not treated all quite as equally as most would expect) and here too the fish were prey to the creatures who harnessed currents of air.
Then we come to man, and the things like man, and their little metal ships that lift off from their concrete and metal pads and dare to breach the void of space. They would depart to and from, far and wide, for parts unknown and ports quite distant. Space was vast, and it seethed; and the planets these ships seethed with them. They spun around in their orbits at rates of tens of thousands of miles per hour, around stars that quietly drifted across millenia and eons and near eternities.
Some planets moved less naturally than others. The Ascendancy could only hide their own assets; the planets they carried aboard their Hand of God class transports would remain visible on sensors, were it not for the fact that there was no one in hundreds of lightyears to see the deed done. So they thought, at least. As per their silent arrangement with the Immortal Empire, the Ascendancy was culturing worlds for them; planets were dragged through the depths of space by ships the size of which made leviathans and the gods seem small. In its confidence, the Ascendancy cared little for this fact. There were no witnesses to this, at least, none to the ships proper. They would not imagine for some time that while their ships remained hidden, their unnatural dance across the cosmos was more detected than not. Distant eyes watched the choreographed dances of countless worlds, and noted with prudent fascination that some seemed to be dancing to the beats of different drums. They moved methodically out of their orbits and towards distant stars, and from great distances, eyes marveled at just what was happening in the domain of the Immortal Empire.
As space seethed, so did Emissary Dalyth. She was growing more comfortable with her position as emissary to the Overlord’s court, but the task was becoming less and less pleasant the more and more comfortable it became. She was the Ascendancy’s only contact with the Immortal Empire, and the task was a heavy one. Requests were made, intelligence given, and now a strange condition was developing between the two entities: the Ascendancy was passing technical instructions onto a select group of the Immortal Empire’s greatest engineers and technicians. This was for Dalyth a very distasteful condition to be in, for the Ascendancy was above such things. They had standards, surely; they were already soiling their hands by having to reveal their presence to the Union of Worlds and the Immortal Empire. It had gone badly with the Emperor, as they had anticipated, but the game’s change had placed the Emperor in a place he didn’t fully as yet appreciate. It would make the dirt and blood on their hands that much more worthwhile once he realized where his duty resided.
“Prime Admiral, I have as requested provided updated temporal intelligence to the Overlord’s court. However, I request further instructions regarding these modified reports pertaining to-”
“What need have you of such information, Emissary?” The ghostly form of the withered Prime Admiral requested sternly. She was the only non-Heraldic Flux that Dalyth had ever spoken to, for Heraldics are strictly forbidden with interacting with common Flux. Yet by her actions, Dorin had become one of them, and with an undetected emotion of great reservation, Dalyth showed no expression as she responded.
“You’re asking me to mislead the Overlord’s court about a very serious matter, Prime Admiral-”
“Do you shy from deception, Emissary?” There was almost a tone of sarcasm in her voice, but Dorin had learned how to behave from the people who had accepted her; mostly, at least, but the tone might possibly still remain. Unlike Dorin, Dalyth was a fullblooded, fully cultured, fully educated Heraldic. She was a manufactured sociopath, bred to be the most efficient, unwaveringly cunning sort of diplomat, and she kept her face totally out of contact with her heart.
“I feel hesitation about wasting the resources of those in our command.” She said evenly, as she privately considered how she might go about arranging for the Prime Admiral’s assassination of the circumstances dictated it. Surely she was not the only one who questioned the wisdom of the Ascendancy’s new de facto leader. “We need them to be fully fit to execute our wishes upon this galaxy.”
“Your dedication is meritous, Emissary.” Dorin murmured, as the wrinkles on her face seemed to shift in the ethereal light. “I fully concur with the sentiment. This is for their own good. We bless them with our assistance. We whisper tellings of the future, we deliver worlds and empires to their doorstep, and now we give them assistance in developing wonderous things-”
“Is that wise, Prime Admiral?” Dalyth asked abruptly, though hardly without consideration. “They will not be prepared-”
“-and through their obliviousness they will be spared the horrendous destruction that we shall bring to bare upon our common enemies. They will grow fat off the bones of the dead.” The Prime Admiral declared solidly. “We do not forsake them.” She almost seemed to glare, but refrained, though Dalyth could almost sense the poor attempt. “What progress have their scientists made with the packages?”
Dalyth resisted an urge to shift in her stance.
“They collected their first payloads yesterday. We checked the temporal futures for all four of the active devices, and can confirm that no premature releases will occur for at least the next twenty years. We‘re working quite closely in overseeing their progress.” Dalyth did not voice her concern about the weapons however; their long gone original creators had viewed them as a weapon to end war as anyone had known it, yet to Prime Admiral Dorin they were simply another tool in her bag.
“Further harvesting is underway,” she added as an afterthought.
--oOo--
Dheth was dirty. He was soiled, and while there was little blood on his armour, he was not a clean shipmaster; nor was he the master of a ship any longer. He was running. He had been running for a considerable while now; his hair, normally immaculately combed, was greasy and folded oddly. He was not even wearing the Heraldic’s armour his post entitled him, but one of the standard Flux suits for all conditions combat. It had come aboard when their visitor had docked.
Hell had followed.
WARNING, the ship stated in spite of what was growing within it. ATMOSPHERIC VENTING IN PROCESS. BREATHABLE ATMOSPHERE WILL BE DEPLETED IN THIRTEEN YEARS, SIX MONTHS-
It was a very large ship, mind you.
-FOUR DAYS, EIGHT HOURS-
A very large ship. It was similar, though not identical, to the planetary transports that dragged worlds in seeming invisibility across the Immortal Empire’s vast domain. Unlike them though, this ship had had a special mission.
The mission had failed. Minutes after their visitor had departed with the total sum of the research they had been collecting and moments before they should have ceased to exist, the ship’s computer abruptly warned that a FSEMCE had been scheduled for that very point where his ship was. The course was locked, and death seemed certain-
-and then their cargo had tapped into the FTL drives. It could not steer the ship, mind you, but it could get it out of the area moments before the effect would have sucked all life out of them.
For the past two months, Dheth had been fighting a losing battle. The dwindling survivors of his crew were picked off in cruel and unusual ways be their enigmatic foe; doors abruptly closed on them, electrical conduits were overloaded in close proximity to them, gases burned them, smoke choked them, and one by one…
…and one by one, they were being picked off.
He was trying to take the ship with him, and the ship wasn’t liking it.
At that moment, he failed in his mission. The Abherration, after months of effort, cracked into the ship’s communications system. Thank the Khamood’Urr that the ship's organic features had purged the crypto-gear in the first few minutes of the horror, as it was now well out of reach of their foe.
But that wasn’t what their foe was after.
--oOo--
It was a simple signal; an SOS and coordinates to something the universe had never meant to find.
--oOo--
TO BE CONTINUED
---“What Difference Does It Make?”, originally by The Smiths
--oOo--
Space seethed. It was a subtly and misleadingly uniform seething, but it seethed regardless, on scales both large and small. Subatomic stringlets writhed quietly, and atoms bounced, and molecules vibrated and carried sound through the atmospheres of millions of worlds. Beyond that, the flies darted above the seas of countless worlds, only to be devoured by fish (or creatures of similar ilk) which left only eddies rippling after the flies were dead and the deed was done. Above them would soar creatures of unimaginable diversity (for after all, these were millions of worlds; evolution had not treated all quite as equally as most would expect) and here too the fish were prey to the creatures who harnessed currents of air.
Then we come to man, and the things like man, and their little metal ships that lift off from their concrete and metal pads and dare to breach the void of space. They would depart to and from, far and wide, for parts unknown and ports quite distant. Space was vast, and it seethed; and the planets these ships seethed with them. They spun around in their orbits at rates of tens of thousands of miles per hour, around stars that quietly drifted across millenia and eons and near eternities.
Some planets moved less naturally than others. The Ascendancy could only hide their own assets; the planets they carried aboard their Hand of God class transports would remain visible on sensors, were it not for the fact that there was no one in hundreds of lightyears to see the deed done. So they thought, at least. As per their silent arrangement with the Immortal Empire, the Ascendancy was culturing worlds for them; planets were dragged through the depths of space by ships the size of which made leviathans and the gods seem small. In its confidence, the Ascendancy cared little for this fact. There were no witnesses to this, at least, none to the ships proper. They would not imagine for some time that while their ships remained hidden, their unnatural dance across the cosmos was more detected than not. Distant eyes watched the choreographed dances of countless worlds, and noted with prudent fascination that some seemed to be dancing to the beats of different drums. They moved methodically out of their orbits and towards distant stars, and from great distances, eyes marveled at just what was happening in the domain of the Immortal Empire.
As space seethed, so did Emissary Dalyth. She was growing more comfortable with her position as emissary to the Overlord’s court, but the task was becoming less and less pleasant the more and more comfortable it became. She was the Ascendancy’s only contact with the Immortal Empire, and the task was a heavy one. Requests were made, intelligence given, and now a strange condition was developing between the two entities: the Ascendancy was passing technical instructions onto a select group of the Immortal Empire’s greatest engineers and technicians. This was for Dalyth a very distasteful condition to be in, for the Ascendancy was above such things. They had standards, surely; they were already soiling their hands by having to reveal their presence to the Union of Worlds and the Immortal Empire. It had gone badly with the Emperor, as they had anticipated, but the game’s change had placed the Emperor in a place he didn’t fully as yet appreciate. It would make the dirt and blood on their hands that much more worthwhile once he realized where his duty resided.
“Prime Admiral, I have as requested provided updated temporal intelligence to the Overlord’s court. However, I request further instructions regarding these modified reports pertaining to-”
“What need have you of such information, Emissary?” The ghostly form of the withered Prime Admiral requested sternly. She was the only non-Heraldic Flux that Dalyth had ever spoken to, for Heraldics are strictly forbidden with interacting with common Flux. Yet by her actions, Dorin had become one of them, and with an undetected emotion of great reservation, Dalyth showed no expression as she responded.
“You’re asking me to mislead the Overlord’s court about a very serious matter, Prime Admiral-”
“Do you shy from deception, Emissary?” There was almost a tone of sarcasm in her voice, but Dorin had learned how to behave from the people who had accepted her; mostly, at least, but the tone might possibly still remain. Unlike Dorin, Dalyth was a fullblooded, fully cultured, fully educated Heraldic. She was a manufactured sociopath, bred to be the most efficient, unwaveringly cunning sort of diplomat, and she kept her face totally out of contact with her heart.
“I feel hesitation about wasting the resources of those in our command.” She said evenly, as she privately considered how she might go about arranging for the Prime Admiral’s assassination of the circumstances dictated it. Surely she was not the only one who questioned the wisdom of the Ascendancy’s new de facto leader. “We need them to be fully fit to execute our wishes upon this galaxy.”
“Your dedication is meritous, Emissary.” Dorin murmured, as the wrinkles on her face seemed to shift in the ethereal light. “I fully concur with the sentiment. This is for their own good. We bless them with our assistance. We whisper tellings of the future, we deliver worlds and empires to their doorstep, and now we give them assistance in developing wonderous things-”
“Is that wise, Prime Admiral?” Dalyth asked abruptly, though hardly without consideration. “They will not be prepared-”
“-and through their obliviousness they will be spared the horrendous destruction that we shall bring to bare upon our common enemies. They will grow fat off the bones of the dead.” The Prime Admiral declared solidly. “We do not forsake them.” She almost seemed to glare, but refrained, though Dalyth could almost sense the poor attempt. “What progress have their scientists made with the packages?”
Dalyth resisted an urge to shift in her stance.
“They collected their first payloads yesterday. We checked the temporal futures for all four of the active devices, and can confirm that no premature releases will occur for at least the next twenty years. We‘re working quite closely in overseeing their progress.” Dalyth did not voice her concern about the weapons however; their long gone original creators had viewed them as a weapon to end war as anyone had known it, yet to Prime Admiral Dorin they were simply another tool in her bag.
“Further harvesting is underway,” she added as an afterthought.
--oOo--
Dheth was dirty. He was soiled, and while there was little blood on his armour, he was not a clean shipmaster; nor was he the master of a ship any longer. He was running. He had been running for a considerable while now; his hair, normally immaculately combed, was greasy and folded oddly. He was not even wearing the Heraldic’s armour his post entitled him, but one of the standard Flux suits for all conditions combat. It had come aboard when their visitor had docked.
Hell had followed.
WARNING, the ship stated in spite of what was growing within it. ATMOSPHERIC VENTING IN PROCESS. BREATHABLE ATMOSPHERE WILL BE DEPLETED IN THIRTEEN YEARS, SIX MONTHS-
It was a very large ship, mind you.
-FOUR DAYS, EIGHT HOURS-
A very large ship. It was similar, though not identical, to the planetary transports that dragged worlds in seeming invisibility across the Immortal Empire’s vast domain. Unlike them though, this ship had had a special mission.
The mission had failed. Minutes after their visitor had departed with the total sum of the research they had been collecting and moments before they should have ceased to exist, the ship’s computer abruptly warned that a FSEMCE had been scheduled for that very point where his ship was. The course was locked, and death seemed certain-
-and then their cargo had tapped into the FTL drives. It could not steer the ship, mind you, but it could get it out of the area moments before the effect would have sucked all life out of them.
For the past two months, Dheth had been fighting a losing battle. The dwindling survivors of his crew were picked off in cruel and unusual ways be their enigmatic foe; doors abruptly closed on them, electrical conduits were overloaded in close proximity to them, gases burned them, smoke choked them, and one by one…
…and one by one, they were being picked off.
He was trying to take the ship with him, and the ship wasn’t liking it.
At that moment, he failed in his mission. The Abherration, after months of effort, cracked into the ship’s communications system. Thank the Khamood’Urr that the ship's organic features had purged the crypto-gear in the first few minutes of the horror, as it was now well out of reach of their foe.
But that wasn’t what their foe was after.
--oOo--
It was a simple signal; an SOS and coordinates to something the universe had never meant to find.
--oOo--
TO BE CONTINUED