Post by him on Oct 23, 2023 2:02:46 GMT
CLANHOLDS SPACE - C'EVETS EMBASSIC STATION
4 DAYS BEFORE THE CONFERENCE"How long would it be until the station is fully prepared?" asked a cloaked Zetyan in a suit-imitating harness, observing an atrium from far above through glass and steel. He stood heads above another, who plinked away at a datapad.
"Around 8 hours, minimum." the other responded, looking up to watch the myriad of workers and runts setting tables, preliminarily moving decorations, marking areas to place security measures. "By the time you make the announcement at maximum. Security is already present, just need to assign posts and bodyguards."
"Good. And our designated speakers are confirmed attendants?" Ki'nak Vol'nisa was set to give a press conference in about 20 hours, midday by the timescales of the planet they were encircling.
"Yep. Orillian speaker will be delayed, something about a pit stop at Hlaer, but that's to be expected. Everyone'll be here on the dot." At this, the cloaked one nodded, and his assistant took a moment to ask a question. "If I may, sir - you're sure nothing will go wrong?"
"Actually, the opposite." He spoke as a sigh, the light faintly reflecting the bags in his eyes. "Khanate warlords, Kel'thul radicals, Orillians, ICEC evangelists piggybacking off of Selencians, with how many squabbling kids we're could have I'll be surprised if we get less than an argument or two. But this is an opportunity, for us to gain influence, to get more power to the cause. And between you and me, get people ready."
"...for?" He tilted his head, staring up from his pad.
"Don't know. But with how things are going, I know there's going to be a storm coming." Ki'nak idly watched a runt hanging up a banner, custom-designed for the event. "Better to be ready."
"As you do, sir." The banner hung over an entrance, now, the eye of CONA watching over the empty atriums with intent.
---
CLANHOLDS CONFIRMS DIPLOMATIC CONFERENCE WILL OFFICIALLY COMMENCE IN 4 DAYS
Digest Holofeed - Just a few hours ago, the Voriarch of the Zetyan Clanholds officially announced that their proposed diplomatic conference, now officially titled the Conference for the Nativist Powers of Ancerious, will begin within the week, supposedly within four days as per their official timetable. The intent of the conference is for nativist nations and organizations to build and strengthen ties between each other and to reinforce nativist rhetoric across the anterior regions of the galaxy, amongst other proposed objectives.
While the conference location has been undisclosed, invitations have been confirmed to be sent across the galaxy, particularly in regions near the Invilis Corridor and it's neighbors. Spokespersons have confirmed that, while requiring a vetting process, colonials have not been barred from being invited, with the only confirmed prerequsite to be invited as not being a member of SAGA.
"Given what we have seen of SAGA and CONA alike, both myself and the Clanholds government are of the belief that unity within the nativist powers is necessary for our cause to succeed." stated the Voriarch in his broadcast. "This conference is thus designed to facilitate this goal, and we believe it shall succeed in this regard. I believe it will be a beneficial event for the nativist cause, and those who align with it."
Many have harkened back to the UoW's Olive Branch in regards to the CNPA, drawing both correlation and criticism alike. While the Clanholds has assured that security will not be an issue, the ill reputation of CONA nations on the galactic stage have led to concerns over whether order can be maintained at the conference itself. However, the Clanholds has also confirmed that many attendees across the Unmar Frontier, Zakar Frontier, Borealis Cluster and more have accepted their invitation, not mentioning the Corridor itself.
We will update you as the event commences, and will set up a live recording for the Conference once it begins. For more information...
---
4 DAYS LATER
By the time the conference had officially opened it's doors, a plentitude of guests had already arrived in anticipation. The station was no hotel, and even with many rooms being repurposed as temporary lodging a not-insubstantial amount of diplomats had to make do with going planetside until the time had come. Prechecked, checked, then checked again, security onboard the station was a tight ship as all the money the Clanholds could use was dumped into their security detail. Scanners of all types, the best in private security, and a warship detachment that floated lazily outside, yet silently ready to open fire on whoever would seek to disturb the peace. They had taken no chances, especially with the reputations of their peers.
The station itself was surprisingly pleasing, even despite their designers. Art deco reigned supreme over the entire interior, practical yet pleasing in some places and humbly ornate in many others. It was laced with gold, with amenities aplenty and foreign staff who were eager to please. An indoor cultivated multi-biome terrarium, multiple catering suites, and whatever in reason could come to mind was available for the countless attendees. Yet pervading through the pretty dress-up was the unmistakable presence of Zettish corporatism, with ads subtly integrating themselves into furniture or holographics, and logos branded wherever possible.
There would be speakers from all spectra of the nativist philosophy, from Orillia to the Hochlands, all of whom were large names both in the movement and abroad. Multiple influential dignitaries had arrived; some from New Janar, others from the NSR, Orillia, the Bulo Compact, not mentioning the uncountable amount of unaligned who had come. Whoever else had arrived would have a wide selection of diplomats to converse with, not mentioning the others who had answered the call.
The Voriarch himself watched from the sidelines, conversing with his assistants one last time before he performed the opening proceedings, and joined the pandemonium. Everything needed to be running as smooth as possible, and he wanted to ensure it up to the last possible moment.
The banners hung overhead, and watched them all with intent.
The Consensus was in a mild state of disarray, if one was being generous. Nearly three fourths of the entire Clade had been spread out across the galaxy for a variety of equally important tasks. As was becoming a constant theme, there simply wasn't enough of them.
Cosya Ihimi - Child-like Wonder - was seen as a competent individual by the Clade - they were a scholar, well researched, perpetually curious, three centuries in age, and generally seen as "up and coming". The haleelian had taken a keen interest in the political studies authored by the cladeships who had been tearing across the galaxy. Most of it was status reports on the dealings various factions had with one another, though there were a few which detailed the subtle cultural underpinnings of the greater galaxy-spanning conflict. Thus, a natural diplomat for a situation in which none of the specialized diplomats could be spared.
With no cladecraft avaiable, Cosya Ihimi had taken commercial transit to the thankfully relatively nearby Clanholds. It was no glamorous entourage or fancy yacht or sublime piece of spatial engineering - no, Cosya Ihimi preferred it simple. Real. To be a participant in history, rather than a passive observer; and given history surrounded them daily, it only seemed natural to choose this course.
Eir visit to the planet was brief, though interesting. Ey had never seen a Zeytan world before in person, leaving them bemused to find such similar aesthetic style as with the Mus'vanis. The propensity for many societies in this galaxy to favor the gaudy fascinated em. As did the plethora of ads and other corporate ostentatiousness, which they swiftly filtered out of their vision. Very much akin to their friends in the CES.
As for themselves, they came as most Saxheelians did: simply as they were. Their attire flowed from the reptilian form elegantly, and Cosya Ihimi moved with a practiced grace that spoke of subtle truths. The guards at the checkpoints did not worry them, nor did the prospect of another attack as had happened at the Cradle. Such things, their people had learned, were simply the way these endeavors moved. Seemed little point to worry about it, if you are going in the first place.
Ey glided from diplomatic group to diplomatic group - rubbing shoulders briefly with those their people knew and those they did not. Ey wanted a strong sense of things, to grasp the emotions of the people present, to gauge what course history would take. The Clade believed that the war would escalate, and Cosya Ihimi would find the truth in this place above all others.
For now, though, they would simply find some new friends.
The Sodalyte delegation had already left something of a mess in her wake.
The checkpoint had seen her relinquishing an armory's worth of small and curly-looking devices from the depths of her body, to start. When asked about the ceremonial (but distinctly real) weapons in her entourage's hair, she simply dismissed the four Happoseis she'd brought with her: leaving them to be babysat by the checkpoint's guard in their fashionable-looking bodygloves-and-blazers. For the most part, they had been extremely polite and understanding; though they'd also spent the better half of the hour jabbering to themselves in a language that sounded like a squid choking on a drowning cat as other guests walked by. Curiously, when the Saxheelian had walked past them, they'd become eerily silent: their big, gooey eyes staring into Cosya's soul as they'd passed through.
Something wasn't right with those little slimes.
The Nami herself had spent some time exploring the venue during the pre-opening murmur, chatting idly with the waitstaff and Zetyan corporate heads attending as others of her ilk warily kept to their little social cliques in the corners of the main parlors. As this one had passed-by, however, the looming eight-and-ten-and-twelve-foot-tall women dipped their heads in respect; something they hadn't even done for the diplomats of other nations. Something about the mirror-finish ultrachrome of her bodyglove and the opalescent glint of her pink fluid had caught their eye—though when asked, most simply refused to talk about her. One, when pressed, had muttered over a drink as she watched the quiet diva dominate an entire sofa with the mere act of sitting.
"Hail Umi," she had said. "Hail Senso."
Now seated, the Nami had positioned herself as close as possible to the Voriarch's podium, lying in wait like a massive, colorful hunter-predator. Her face, freckled with a spattering of Sodalyte spots, was tinted with a self-pleased scarlet as she adjusted the gargantuan bridal-train of her "hair" over the cushioning around her. The stuff rippled like ocean waves and foamed at the crests with aeration, draping luxuriously over the semiclear body and black, glossy rim of her cropped blazer and thigh-high boots.
Her six eyes focused briefly on Ihimi, then drifted across the room as if it had been mere happenstance.
Words would be had, though it seemed that her first priority was a counsel with the great clanleader himself.
In walked a delegation of the ARM, the evident head official striding in first, followed by her subordinates. Stark white demibiological flesh about the head and torso, neck a long segmented jointless thing of orange-brown ceramic plates, as were the arms, while legs were a pair of tapering muscular stilts ending in perfectly balanced points. Her, or at least her sex could be inferred as female from her delicate facial features, expression was calm, placid even. But the uncanny grace of this particular specimen was contrasted with that of her subordinates. One a hulking machine with a multi-eyed almost insectile head, its body covered in a ceramic exoskeleton, the others a pack of clearly humanoid beings, pallid-skinned and half-augmented, bearing the scarring and roughness of surgery and cybernetic augmentation that gave no consideration for aesthetics, only utility. All were wearing dark blue cloaks, in addition to gray jumpsuits in the case of the organics, as they found a spot to settle, sickly-yellow displays of holographic light flitting about their heads like malign haloes.
XAU Representative Jelis Malia looked over her fellow delegates carefully, correlating faces to any information available to gain a better understanding of who else was attending. It was an honor and a challenge to be selected for representing the Anthropic Refinement Movement's interests in such a pivotal meeting, but her Character Score was far higher than all of her peers, justifying her selection for the role. All that could be done now was wait and see.
The Herskal Directorate was not a nation of any particular influence or presence- The Minister of the Exterior knew as such, and was under much pressure to bring the Directorate into the scene now that they have finally ascended to the stars. A large diplomatic conference thusly seemed like a golden opportunity for the Ministry to prove its worth.
As such, the Minister of the Exterior, Duchess Surnak of Ichier, would arrive with a relatively large and cumbersome entourage to hopefully get a foothold in galactic politics. There was the four Diplomatic Couriers, tasked with the transport and procurement of the various dossiers they had compiled on their CONA allies and the various potential diplomatic plans that had been cooked up in the event of such a fortuitous meeting. There were thirteen attachés- one from each other Ministry to ensure their respective Ministry's interests were represented.
Asides from the purely diplomatic side of the entourage, there were the six escorts provided by the 14th Foot Guards of Ichier from the Duchess's home regiment, which reluctantly had to surrender their arms at the door; There was the Interpretor who came with the Ministry of Technology's attaché, who was currently setting up the rather bulky translator computer so that the Herskal Diplomats could actually understand what the hell was being said around them; There were also a nearly equal amount of servants- the Duchess herself had two, and some of the more affluent attachés brought their own as well to help with their personal luggage and accommodation.
This rather cumbersome entourage kept to themselves. They had entered the Terrarium to find a more mangrove-like section, where they clambered onto the branches with as much decorum as one could have when laying atop a tree branch; For as many of them as there were, the small nature of the Verkroans meant they decidedly didn't take up terribly much space, turning the branches of the mangroves into a highly colourful kalaiedescope of colors. If one decided to investigate further, they'd note that any of the Verkroans from the same group wore very similar colours- the Duchess was draped in lavish looking silks of vibrant blue and trimmed with green, the now rifle-less Rifles of the 14th Foot Guards bearing clean pressed uniforms of a much stiffer and rugged looking fabric bearing a similar blue with duller green facing colors. If one investigated further, they'd be able to see various heraldic crests emblazoned on their uniforms; while each had the flag of the Herskal Directorate upon it, each uniform was tailored to represent their colours of their estate or lord.
For now, however, the colourfol crowd would be comfortably waiting in the tree branches, quietly bickering among themselves with the occasional hiss and snap at of the jaw before reigning in their animosity towards one another with the glare from the Minister of the Exterior.
Selene had been a tired woman these last few years. Her station as primary diplomat of the Selenican Republic had taken her to many corners of this galaxy, a station she never could have predicted as a main woman in military procurement. Slumped over in a commercial shuttle, quite a pedestrian craft, on the way to yet another conference meant to foster greater cooperation between nations of Ancerious, she was reminded not-so-subtly of the Olive Branch Incident, where she and...what was that young girl's name...Elena...? Ah, who could remember. Where she and the other woman were held for a time following the...murder of the Union head of state.
"Poor bastard." She thought to herself, flipping a fidget toy over and over, clicking the numerous buttons on it. "Must've stuck his nose where it didn't belong with Orillia or some other super-hardliner."
At least she had a Saxheelian to accompany her.
"Cosya Ihimi. Strange name..." She thought to herself, looking over to the Saxheelians. Their form bared much similarities to the Selenicans, though with the obvious differences. They weren't small individuals -- roughly 10 feet in height. Selene enjoyed having someone of her stature, her own body being 25 feet long and with a deep, iridescent black in coloration, to accompany her.
Conversation in the shuttle, a relatively small and cramped vehicle, leased only for a short time on least expense for the diplomats of the nations, took one of two forms. Either it was short and terse, a format Selene preferred, or extremely long-winded. The Saxheelians seemingly preferred the former, with the picking of her brain and thought process a common subject on the extremely lengthy flight. Selene was quite fond of Cosya. Their propensity to dig into and discover everything the universe had to offer, in subjects Selene knew relatively well, brought the two together almost by fate.
---
Boarding the Zetyan station, Selene wasn't exactly shocked to see the relative gaudiness in comparison to her home base. Cooperation with Zetyans had been...minimal, however, their propensity for individual advancement and prosperity over the collective was well-known, and the station reflected that. She was neither comforted or discomforted by its lavishness in places, much preferring to remain in whatever gardens or areas of more humble construction. It felt...more familiar. Like home. A home she hadn't seen in months, almost a year...
Her clothing didn't reflect her preferences. It was almost too elegant and extravagant, her extremely long and heavy dress a deep maroon and bronze-colored jewelry reflecting the colors of her flag. She was a walking propaganda machine here, to show "this is what the Selenicans are! This is what we have!" When, in reality, her belongings were meager at best. Her fidgeting had gotten worse over time, and the long periods of deep drunkedness which afflicted her past had arrived again, baring their teeth like a tiger who you once thought defeated.
However, the show must continue. She must show the best face for her nation. Joining CONA was perhaps one of the most controversial political stances she had taken, however, it had found them allies. Allies they had sorely needed when the UDS intervened over Selenican space.
It was time to expand the young nation's influence in the block. The clock was ticking, and many other diplomats were present.
Ursyllix surveyed his surroundings with interest. His eyes going from individual to individual as he strode confidently into the venue.
The Orillia ambassador wore the finest robes he had, red, black and white in finely woven silks. The almost glimmered in the light as he held his head high. The only thing that seemed out of place was the fact the ambassadors hands were kept very close to his chest. There would be no mistakes this time, there would be no way for another nation to frame Orillia for an assassination. What a low and desperate method to bring about peace.
He did not expect much from this conference, it was afterall a clear political play by the Clanholds, one to try and pry more power away from the Free State and the Krizpakt who had now very much aligned with Orillia and their ways of thinking.
They would play along of course, the Zetyans were a member of CONA. One who had fought for the cause valiantly. But Ursyllix was not going to let an even like this allow them to get ahead of the game. Things were already in motion. Orillia and their closest allies had secured AMEC, Brought the first tactical defeat to AOTS-K and were now poised to strike the colonials and reignite the war when the Canton unleashed their insane superweapon.
Yes, things were going well. He was just here to ensure the icing on top set properly.
Brian Wickford, all things considered, was holding himself together rather well. An onlooker would spot nothing wrong with the young man, an achievement to Brian to say the least. He found himself accompanying quiet Vaplanan diplomat Alnair Nevarro, an older man who watched people more than talk himself. They had barely spoken during the travel here, which Brian considered for the best.
He had begged and begged the Queen to send him here, he was so desperate to get away from Vaplana for a while. But now he was here, he felt like he shouldn't have. He felt much less welcome here than he had at the Union's event. Vaplana, while neutral officially, had been leaning closer to SAGA as of late due to the new frostiness of their relationship with Orillia. It was their official goal today to make their neutral stance clear, Vaplana would not be accused of taking sides by only attending one camp's events. Unofficially, Brian and Alnair were to quietly and discreetly discuss the pros of being neutral. Sow some seeds, make some new friends potentially. Brian had not forgotten his Uncle's conversations with Fg'han, and the work was just beginning to pull people away from CONA. This, therefore, was an opportunity Vaplana could not miss.
Ka'Li'Bo had been to the Olive Branch, the event at the Silver Cradle. He had been seeking help for his upstart resistance, but could never find it.
This was his second try, now that the revolution in the heart of Kel'thul was in full swing. Garner support, get some sort of aid, anything. The representative of the Kel'thulian Reformist Movement was clad in bright teal robes, and wore no mask like most kel'thulians would have. He and his entourage of two had taken the hours planetside to fully acclimatize to the lower-Co2 atmosphere, something that left them wearily tired, but they could survive. It was a show of humility, a show that they felt not the complex of superiority that the Grand Empire would.
One of the two following him- Na'ta'ka- spoke up. "Ka'li'bo, are you sure the Zettish will even hold our audience," he somewhat whispered in galactic basic. "How can we know they wont just side with the Grand Empire and lock us up?"
"We have to have faith, and save the discussion with the zetyans for later. If we can even get one nation siding with us, it'll all be worth it, no matter what happens to us. If you don't like that, you're free to go home," Kalibo responded.
Nataka did not move, nor respond. He knew Kalibo was right, and he remained silent as the three kelthulians filed in.
TYRANT DAWN ORDERS RETASKING.
At those words, a vast instrumentality shifted in the Myriad-Sun Shore’s heart. Yoking, harnessing, shaping, pushing, commanding - countless transformations in wavelength and medium could not dull the message’s imperious core. It punched downward, imbued with contemptuous priority. Like a lightning bolt filtering through the clouds, static charge became thunder and reality.
The Sun Shore’s chosen pair were mere echoes of that thunder. Neither gave the immediate impression of a diplomatic emissary. Even their own nationals treated them like simple cargo rather than critical officials. Denied the option of civilian transit, they’d spent their travels in the hold of a Shoreline logistics vessel. The possibility of going planetside was dismissed without objections. It simply wasn’t necessary.
Out of the two, Xintian was the first to wake and present himself. He was an Envoy - a dedicated interaction platform hosted in a biorobotic shell. As a result, he had little attachment to his physical body. This would be his sixth.
He’d opted for subdued formalwear in off-white, complete with a dark identifier armband near his left shoulder. Despite its simple composition, the ensemble’s hard lines and perfect fit nonetheless reflected precision and craft. A concession to his true nature dangled around his neck: a small vial containing a portion of his fluid body. The mass itself was so small as to be insignificant, but the sentiment remained. Today, no matter how benign, the Myriad-Sun Shore intended no deception whatsoever.
Fengxiu cut a decidedly less conventional figure. Out of context, it was possible to misidentify her as Xintian’s personal security unit. She was a horrendously bulky machine, like a tank messily crushed to the size of a small car. Heavy plating and shielded sensors dominated much of her arachnid silhouette. As if to match her partner, some of Fengxiu’s abdominal plating had been deliberately stripped. The canisters and tubing carrying her liquid brain were now plainly visible.
Her inelegant body was proof of Fengxiu’s origins in industrial administration. Over the last few years, she’d been responsible for handling the Shore’s resourcing operations on the barren world of Dearth. It was an unenviable position.
For now, the Sun Shore’s representatives saw fit to take a more passive stance. Xintian sat atop Fengxiu’s ungainly shell, scanning the other attendees with a faint smile.
Create.
Sub-ordinance M45GSY8445 unable. Control W-dimension
Unable. W-dimension incomplete. Ignore Sub-ordinance. Create.
Unable. Must control W-dimension.
Ignore W-dimension. Create.
...
Unable.
...
Substitute W-dimension. Utilize Subsector LA31415.NICOTES.LA. Create.
...
Verify usage Subsector 31415.NICOTES.
Verified. Access code 0.007299270073A💣☜☼✋👎✋✌️ 👌☹️✌️👍😐☟⚐☹️☜
...
Usage verified. Proceeding.
-------------------------------
What a familiar scene.
As she slowly made her way to a docking port, the Paragon transport buzzing with the insectoid-like wings it held, Lillian contemplated the situation again. It was such a fimilar scene, yet.... it was vastly different.
Silver Cradle had been both a grand success and a grand tragedy for many. It meant the start of new friendships and alliances, yet it was the unknowing last day for a diplomat. Silver Cradle represented both creation and destruction. It represented Life and Death. A place where everyone could gather and talk. Worker and Royalty. Technological and Biological. Native and Colonial. It's was supposed to be the start of something new, and in a way, it truly was.
Yet, as her ship docked, she wondered amongst the floating ocean of nothing if they could ever get the same result with what the Zetyans had put into motion. This time, there were no members of SAGA allowed to join in on the ocassion. While there were colonials, she could not help but wonder how their presence, her presence, would affect the meeting. She knew that not all members were native purists, her allies proved that. Yet, as she took a step into the palace of diplomacy the Zetyans had created, her shimmering blue dress slightly dragging on the floor, her hair made into a crown braid, she dreamt an dream of many existences. Many were good, many were bad.
Yet, she still walked. She would be there, try to talk, and try not to fight. For she was Lillian, she would try to bring love.
Aboard the "Karasu no Jokyoku" [The Overture of the Raven] en route to C'evets Embassic Station.
Ryeo let out a sigh as various members of her staff buzzed around her like honeybees to flowers, ensuring her chima was properly tightened, that her hair was adequately brushed and that her feathers and horns were shined. As they carefully pulled her jeogori out from a frankly excessively lavish she shook her head with an amused smirk before they slowly put it on her and pulled out a hairpin that held the Misthil Family Crest carved out of pure opal and pulled her hair back to tie it into a short bun that still left enough length for it to cascade down to just above her shoulders.
After various other cosmetic checks and adjustments, she was finally ready to leave the changing room, glancing in the mirror and giving an experimental twirl. The black and gold silken skirt spun around in the air as if made from the clouds themselves, nodding to herself in approval she approached the wooden sliding door allowing a servant to open it and stepping out onto the bridge of the ship. The Karasu no Jokyoku was a premiere interstellar-class yacht held in reserve for usage exclusively by the Eminence and their staff, designed with safety and luxury in mind. It was just over a kilometre long but had some of the largest Tachyonic Sails of any ship in the Accord, an aesthetic choice as well as a tactical one to heighten the beauty of the ship but also make it easier for it to escape from any hostile encounters.
As it approached the dock Ryeo turned to look at the two bodyguards that would be accompanying her, both were male Skyari wearing full-suit body armour designed after ancient Surnian Soldiers, with extendable hard light-twin blades kept in an embroidered leather cylinder on their belt. They both inclined their heads signaling their readiness to depart and she nodded to them in response, turning around and walking around the bridge down to the stairs that lead to the elevator.
As she stepped out onto the station flanked by the two guards and an assistant in a neat little hanbok she gazed up and around at the interior that had been revealed to her. Her royal hanbok glistened faintly in the light as the black and gold patterning both blended well yet partially stood out in their surroundings, she cracked a small smile as she finished looking around. The Zetyans may have a few screws loose but damn they knew how to make shit look good sometimes, letting her posture relax slightly before beginning to strut off with her small entourage following closely behind.
This was her chance to extend the wings of the Accord to her fellow galactic natives, to make it known that the Volant Accord would be isolationist no more. After the events of the Second Ancerious War, they had been hesitant but when Ryeo Misthil was put in power she vowed that they would become a friendly face to all, regardless of whether one came from within or without. Her attendance here was one of the very first steps she was taking to go in that direction.
Part 1
Wake up. Keep your eyes closed.
What do you see?
Weird question. Let’s try again.
What do you feel?
A weight on my chest. A sense of urgency, anxiety and grandiosity on my shoulders. The mass of heavenly bodies on my back. That can’t be possible. I’m lying on my back, right?
Yeah, I am on my back.
Actually, I might have moved around a bit in the breathable liquid. It’s had to open my eyes. Come on… Open!
—-
His eyes hurt, both from the amount of light seeping through the nearly transparent liquid and the liquid itself rubbing against his retina. But within a second of the pain came the immediate relief as his cybernetics adjusted to the conditions of his sleeping environment.
Remove the liquid.
The tank did so promptly and without any issues. Now he left on a cold, tiled floor within a medium-sized vat dripping with the healing liquid. He felt his synthetic skin cool off and with it the subtle pain and irritations that confined him to the tank every month.
Just like any other Cascadian, James Fremont had been elected to undergo a cybernetic & genetic augmentation when he was just out of the womb, courtesy of his affluent parents. His natural body adjusted well to his newfound augments, integrating them well for the next 3 decades as he traveled from the heart of human society on Earth to the most backwater of agrarian planets within the old galaxy. The trouble with his skin really began when Cascadia uprooted itself to Ancerious, where he found that minor defects that had developed during his infancy and childhood had now grown out of control and threatened to end his life.
A novel condition, it took the best public and private sector researchers to come up with even a temporary solution. Eventually they improved upon said temporary answer and now he only needed to dive into the tank once every 4 weeks instead of every day.
Fremont’s mundane morning routine served to deafen his thoughts about the past and made it easier to focus on the present.
The present… the time to meet all the diolomats, envoys and attaches of the CONA and neutral nations. As he stepped off his ship, which was arguably much less impressive than those of the other diplomats, he thought about the importance of this gala. The relationships he built here may well save the country he served…
”Need an escort, sir?”
”I got it, Briggs. They’ll look at me more if I didn’t have anyone at my side.”
Something needed to be done.
The use of a crucible by the Toulmarine Canton, especially against a world full of civilians and without time to evacuate them was simply a step too far. Such blatant disregard for life could not stand in the eyes of the Trust, in no small part due to their advisory presence on the planet. Despite the fact that by technicality the Trust were colonials, the fact that they were dropped into the galaxy in what was essentially their stone age, means that all arguments over the danger and power of colonials could hardly apply to them, and in actuality the were natives in every way that mattered.
Still, war was bad for business and the Trust had tried their best to remain separated form the great alliances of the galaxy, even as they formed a new, different one with their new allies during the olive branch meeting. However that sentiment had changed, and the trust had elected to act.
These were the thoughts that filled the mind of Kevi Veddumok as she approached the Embasssic station in Clanholds space. However as her navigation computer beeps, she returns to the moment at hand, moving in for her final approach as she checks that everything is in order for not only landing, but also entry to the station.
Moving through the crowds Kevi spots several familiar faces, or perhaps more accurately, RACES at the delegation. The sodalytes were present, as were the Meta Sax. The Selencians were there as were the other neighbors of the Trust, the Sun Shore, and the friendly AI Lillian.
Moving through the crowds, the low steaming from greets both those representatives whose polities she knows are in good standing with the Trust and those who have little interaction with the crabs with much enthusiasm as if they were old friends. Eventually they settle down near the podium at the front of the crowd so that her height doesn't prevent her from properly seeing the Zetyan speaker.
One of the least expected parties to attend the conference on potential Coronan membership came from the Associated States of Natar. The confederation of states were bound to neutrality by treaty. This, however, seemed to have little effect when it came to the opportunity to make their presence known to the galaxy. Natar’s government under Saljir Arcamavir, of course, had little interest in the idea of throwing itself into orbital bombardments, trade-lane blockades and bloody attrition warfare. However, what they were interested in was prosperity, especially with the economic depression plaguing the world. This conference represented an important opportunity for the Teliran manipulators and string-pullers to gauge how the war was going to change and how they could adapt it to their advantage.
That was at least the objective of the government sending the party, yet the party itself had covert ambitions of its own. Commissioned as Minister-Plenipotentiary for the event led General Relanio Ketha: One of Saljir Arcamavir’s top dogs and practically the only man keeping his government from being brought down by a billion hungry hands. Ketha was a staunch militarist and had already attempted once to align Natar to Corona by dealing with the Orillians during the last elections - Elections which he had lost. But time finds a way to provide other opportunities for those that bide their time and now Ketha held the de-facto keys to Natar.
Ketha planned to use this and lay the groundwork for his future government here and now.
The Telirans made their presence very apparent in their traditional flare. Fashionably late, per the norm, they came marching into the main conference room escorted by their own entourage of guards, bureaucrats, lawyers and media vultures. They orbited Ketha’s approach through the hall like an asteroid field.
“The Honorable General Relanio Ketha, General-Extraordinary of the Kalethian Republic, Former Governor of Talcit, and Commander of Nations for the Associated States!” An ADC loudly announced as if an emperor had entered the room to the crowds of confused parties.
Ketha himself was a tall Teliran clad in a sharp, traditional martial uniform of cascading red cloth. His chiseled jawline led to a face so unexpressive it made him look almost like he was incapable of portraying emotions as he quietly muttered to his aides. He seemed quite interested in finding certain people amongst the crowd. Most notably the Orillias: His old bedfellows, and the Zetyans.
Ketha had come here to chart his roadmap for Natar’s future. Now the question remained if it would lay with Natar joining the Galaxy’s War or maintaining a Minsin-like martial commitment to a dictatorial neutrality.
“Big day today, yes Eve?” A gravelly voice emanates into her ear through a compact speaker. The gravelly voice, one belonging to none other than Admiral Tenax, had the tone and register of a sleepless man.
Evanna Reinach adjusted the headset in her ears, moving the dermal mic around so that it would sit comfortably on her cheek, brushing her red hair out of the way. She checked her appearance briefly, ensuring her maroon blazer sat perfectly on her, briskly reaching over her shoulder to readjust her necklace - it was a modest piece, with a small keralite stone dangling from a dawngold chain, a coveted family heirloom.
“Indeed!” She laughed at his disposition. She knew he set an alarm to jostle himself awake, to make up for the ungodly discrepancy in their current sleep cycles. Hers was far more regular - an almost perfect time management and discipline with routine had given her a consistent sleep schedule - Tenax’s was on a per-need basis, juggling the Novish operation in Corona.
“I hear Grieg made some last minute changes to your agenda. He mentioned that talks with the Elvorian Union regarding the - material - fell through?” Sounds of shifting and turning were audible from his end, as he adjusted his speaker tens of thousands of lightyears away from her, all the way in borealia.
“Mm-hmm! The Selenicans want to renegotiate terms. Among other things, they’ve formally requested we attend this. I also understand they’re going to try to convince us that cooperating more with CONA is the right thing to do. I’ve been briefed on who I'm going to be speaking to - a lady named Selene. She partook in the Olive Branch, the one that went extremely poorly with the Union prime minister- ah. Mm. You know what happened. Anyhow - this lady is the Selenicans top diplomat. Isn’t that novel?” Evanna glowed with excitement, eyes sparkling, knowing this was one of the most significant diplomatic meets Noviy has ever participated in, and she was representing her nation in this endeavor.
The sounds of a mug clinking was audible through the earset. “Good. Now, you take care over there Eve. Enjoy the c'evets embassic station, but take care. I’m sure you’re in no harm, but do it for me.” Tenax’s tone and register became very serious as he said the last of his sentence.
“I will! And you better get some rest - y’know it’s ironic telling me to take care right? You have military leadership revolutions, Eidolon and the Panopticon and the - everything? Happening in Corona, all at once, and you’re stuck right in the middle! And yet you’re still worried about me…” her voice became shaky, not angry or sad, but simply worried beyond measure.
“Hey. I’ll make it out alive, alright? And you better do too. Take care.”
“Sweet dreams, and hurry home!” She hangs up, and in borealia, Tenax-Reinach would relinquish himself to his bed once more. After a short breather, and just a short diagnostic of her makeup, Evanna leaves the shuttle and strides on over, confidently walking into the hall, form fitting, tailored suit showing off the refinement and grace Noviy wished to present to the galaxy. She spotted Selene, who was nearby, and thus traversed the hallway to meet her.
Noviy was here to meet the galaxy proper. Not by circumstance, as Corona required cooperation with extranational forces previously unseen in their history, but truly as a rising entity among the states of the galaxy. The agenda for the conference was extensive, but Evanna was determined to see each item through.
“Hello Selene! I’m Evanna, the Selenicans have summoned us to the Silver Cradle - I represent Noviy”
As he watched the myriads of crowds settling in across the atrium, the Voriarch cracked a small smile. There were many he well indeed recognized, and many more he didn't - Sodalytes, Kel'thulians, Selencians, Svarthans, even the ASN had deigned to show it's face in the venue tonight. He had a good feeling about this, even as he watched an Orillian croon over the surroundings.
There was no putting what came next off any longer. Thankfully, being good at it was a job requirement.
In the central hall where the most activity was, a raised platform area jutted out from the floor, with one area highlighted by a soft ringlight platform up above. In the middle was a podium with a myriad of microphones, each arranged precisely to pick up the speaker's voice clear as day no matter what. When Vol'nisa stepped to the podium, his face was soon broadcast to telescreens across the venue or to opt-in requests within eye cybernetics, and to grab attention a chime played, not quite unlike what one would hear exiting an elevator or perhaps an automated taxi. As he began his speech, his voice carrying through carefully tuned speakers meant for most he barely sounded but feet away.
"Greetings, friends. I welcome all of you to the C'evets, and to the Conférence pour les Pouvoirs Nativistes de Ancerious. If you'll pardon my french, I asked the Janarians for that one." He chuckled at the quip, pausing as some of the crowd did so in return. "I would like to begin by speaking from the heart, as I feel it's far better suited for occasions of a scale as these."
"First, I thank you all for coming. Regardless of how you see us, or how we see you, or whatever your reasoning or ideology may be. Even if you are a colonial - though for some it is antithetical, I firmly believe all hands can, and should be able to help the nativist movement. I recognize familiar faces in this crowd, and likely I will see and acquaint myself with others. By my tally we have a good hundred or so nations alone in this room and beyond, and likely more than that number at the end of the day. I envision that much will be done and laid to paper as we proceed, and I happily support even the smallest of agreements. Every handshake, in my eyes, is a success on all levels." He stood semi-casually, hands on the podium. As he spoke, his voice had an odd ring to it - a sort of strange charisma leeching onto his words.
"Some will ask why we wished to host this, and not perhaps ask Orillia, or New Janar, the Kritzpakt, Republika Strzalka. I won't say it's because we are better suited, that we ought to be the next John the Baptist. At most, we might have lucky positioning to be so surrounded by native brothers and sisters, but nothing more than that. No, I believe CONA at it's heart is a way for natives to speak their voices to the galaxy, and to commune with their peers. The fact it has united so many disparate or potentially clashing peoples, cultures, nations, ideologies under one banner is a testament in and of itself. Perhaps it sounds too altruistic coming out of my mouth, but I see this as a way for us to strengthen that connection, the ties that bind."
"I will not lie, in some form I think it is needed. Of course, the myriad of threats galaxy wide require our utmost attention. The Panopticon seeks to strangle Borealia even as we have stabilized it. A force that wishes to blot out the stars comes to us an entire galaxy away, defying all logic that we know. Even only a few hundred lightyears away, a superweapon is poised to set us back to square one, likely far worse should others follow by example. But even in our own ranks, there is division, infighting. Perhaps it is only natural with the scale of our alliance, but it is as they say - the smallest voices oft speak the loudest. With this, I hope that can change. The last thing we should even consider pointing our guns at is each other."
"There will be four speakers after me, each giving their own speech in turn at each hour. Men and women from the four corners of the galaxy, from the Hochlands to Orillia herself, each with their own view on our movement and purpose - you may even come across them in the crowd as we proceed. Whether they say things you agree with or that you abhor, I encourage you to hear them out nonetheless. Perhaps you may end up agreeing with them."
"With that, I again thank you all for coming. Let us all make this a moment to remember. Vive notre nativité."
He waved and then descended from the podium and platform, as applause was soon drowned out by talking and the pandemonium. The event was now in full swing.
---
A small group lingered near the rear of the room, chatting amongst themselves as they watched the speech. Four rather disparate species, however united under a banner of their own.
They were the Invilis Confederation of Ancerious representatives, and unlike the rest with myriads of issues to discuss and bring to the table they were here for one express purpose - accruing membership. The Orillian's supposition was right, this was a political play - but not for the Zetyans, not by any stretch. The ICA was beginning to become a beast of it's own accord, and what their superiors had in mind for CONA was merely the first step in a much longer-term plan. Divide CONA into pieces, cut the wings of the bat and it's cronies, and let the natives of the galaxy decide their future for themselves.
Of course, they could assume nuance. One hardly attends a diplomatic convention with no plans to perform diplomacy. But the Zetyans could handle their own problems, haggle deals independent of the ICA. Their proof of concept in Borealia, the CBP, had worked like a charm. The most chaotic region of the galaxy, stabilized under one name and banner. If they could do it with Coronans, they could do it with just about damn anyone.
As his speech ended, and the pandemonium began, they each nodded to another then slinked into the crowd.
There was work to be done.
Their purpose was twofold; filler, and profiling.
The former was obvious - most could tune in and out as they pleased in between negotiations and backroom deals, or simply sit and watch, and for any odious paparrazi it was like lamps to a moth. But high up above, cameras were tuned to keep watch of those who listened, sat to watch the shows, each feeding through surveillance teams which themselves fed data into neural network algorithms determining the most likely alignment within the movement for each parent nation. The more moderate ambassadors; filed as potential allies. Those more extremist in thought; filed under a watchlist. The Voriarch's attendants sometimes filtered in and out, providing clarifications to data, but otherwise it ran almost independent of the event itself.
At the main podium, the lights darkened and focused on where the Voriarch had once stood for his speech, an announcer calmly reciting who was to come. Cameras whirred, zoomed on faces mixed within faces, and onlookers anon began to parse the data as the first speaker took the stage.
---
The first of these four was named Obchara V'asse, his last being the maiden name of an adoptive family. Quite unlike the stereotypical Orillian, he was a foreign-born, unbeholden to his parent state's propaganda though no less suffering for their actions abroad. He had grown up in the Rougegorge Republic, to two loving parents who found him in a nursery creche, and from them he learned his three most valuable lessons - the value of labor in work, the importance of kinship, and a love of your home.
Eventually, he came to wander the galaxy, and 'home' soon stretched to wherever he visited, though his heart remained in the Rubicon Valley where mother and father now lived out their waning years. He had once been a humble data courier; now he was a speaker of some fame for his home and his people abroad, and seeing as the galaxy was his birthplace he saw it only natural that everyone he saw was of 'his people' too.
As he took to the podium he had a confident smile, and as he nodded and waved his eyes glanced over the crowd. Some applause was his reward, a polite gesture requesting him to speak. "Thank you; It's an honor to be here." He said, appearing humble. "I extend that thanks to the organizers of this event, and to the Voriarch for personally inviting me to speak here today."
"My name is Obchara V'asse. I'm 29 years old, 30 in November. Of my 29 years being alive, I've spent about 8 being a public speaker, and I've been travelling the galaxy since I was 19. I've been to the Little Light, the Union, Carnaith, the Auraxii DMZ, the Emerald Republics. Just a few days ago I was honored to give a speech at a convention at Hlaer, and in a week or so I'll be featuring at another in the OCCCA. Before 3AW started, I spoke about civil rights, gave anti-war speeches, formally petitioned governments. Over time, I started speaking for nativists, pushing pertinent issues, and eventually I started to shift my speech topics. Nowadays I consider myself a firm nativist; maybe not ."
"Most of my beliefs come from my father. He was an Aedleshavener, left to start a family business which I eventually took part in. He believed in the right for all people to decide their destiny for themselves, he believed both colonials and natives helped build each other up, and he especially believed at some point, everyone becomes a native of our galaxy."
"Now, my father was a great teacher. One of the most important lessons he taught me was this: 'keep your home in your heart". Now, when he told me that, I was just starting my job as a data courier crewmember, continuing the family trade, but I made sure to remember that mantra even as we jumped practically halfway across the galaxy. But no matter where we went, I never felt out of place, no matter the culture nor region of space. At first, I thought it was strange. Live all your life in one place and you expect culture shock, right? But over time, especially after I became a public speaker, it started feeling less strange, and I started realizing something bit by bit. Until, eventually, I came to an epiphany."
"This galaxy, all 40,000 lightyears of it, is our home. It's home for thousands of nations, colonial and native alike, and untold septillions of people across the galaxy. That, I think, is where I started to consider myself a nativist. I believe it was around the time the Jobediea Reports - both of them - were leaked to the public that I truly began to push for nativist issues, especially as the discourse around the subject fully opened up."
"Now, I believe Jobediea was right when his report detailed colonials exacerbating an already major issue - statistics don't lie, and I've poured over his sources enough to recant them offhand. But I also believe that both parties can find a solution to the issue. I often hear people decrying colonials and their peoples for seeming complacency, for the deplorable actions of a few, or even simply being colonial, but I feel these same voices ignore that the same influence that some wield so wantonly is one that we can harness for good as well. I agree, wholeheartedly even, that they often dictate too much in galactic politics, that they are given undue beneficience especially with intercolonial conflicts, and I've spoken out against plenty of well-known figures and nations. But consider this - the same problem that affects us will soon affect them as well. How long until the Union in Ancerious is considered a native by age? How long until Carnaith, the RSC, Capitol are given the title, and they have to contend with overcrowding and colonial dominance just the same as we do now?"
"Therein lay my belief - The 'colonial problem' is everyone's problem, and the sooner we solve it the better. Involving the colonials, I believe, will only expedite this process, and when we have solved it then the rights and powers of natives will follow in suit..."
As V'asse continued on, his audience yet grew - but even as the venue directed attention to him, public discourse seemed to be elsewhere...
---
"Koadamned asshole motherfucker cunts."
Ki'nak Vol'nisa, leader of the Clanholds in it's entirety and decently-respected national figure, swore like an intern as he watched a live feed of what was soon to be the most disastrous event in galactic history. Obchara's speech was a sideshow, a distraction in comparison. It was displayed in some small holofeeds, he could hear murmurs of it in the crowd, and as he stood by the private rooms entrance after his meeting with the Sodalytes
Displayed on his eye augs was a live feed of Marchand, viewed from space and land and sea. In space, he could see that fell obelisk, Otakemaru Station, looming in the void. Radiators glowed beet red in the night, stars in the distance mixing and blending with interstellar traffic choked with evacuees and the dispossessed. A ticking time bomb, and despite how hard everyone condemned and screamed and cried one that was destined to go off. He could only pray hopelessly it didn't fire before the conference had ended.
"Don't you do it. Not now." He muttered to himself, teeth slowly grinding. "You fucking retards, wait an hour at least. Two hours. Don't you fucking do it now."
The second it fired, it was over. This he knew, with it's shadow looming over the occasion like an eclipse in the moon. Emergency protocols would be put in place, formal non-emergency evacuation would begin. Everyone shipped home while the galaxy started to burn around them. Who knew what would happen then? He didn't want to imagine it.
The feed closed, his head shaking in restrained stress. At the very least, the Sodalyte discourse had gone better than he had hoped, 'Umi's seeming apathy towards her people aside. That, atleast could suffice for comfort.
A quick look around, and then with a sigh he wandered back into the pandemonium. No doubt he would find others who wished to talk, sooner or later.
The ARM delegation seemed mostly focused on the presentation. No one approached them when the opportunity presented itself, so they remained where they were, and as if guided by a single mind they stared raptly at the stage, diligently annotating and discussing among themselves via a closed network as they listened.
There was no denying the ARM had been active recently, with a sizeable force deployed to Corona and another smaller force in the Atlantean peacekeeping operation, not to mention alleged if not confirmed contact with the Meta-Sax.
And of course... there was that document that came with their proclamation of allegiance to CONA. In short, it posited that as the amount of extradimensional incursions would trend upwards towards infinity over time, all native life would be overwhelmed by infinite colonials if these migrations were not stopped. That this conflict was an existential battle for survival regardless of the intent of the colonials, for as long as doorways to infinity remained opened, they'd drown Ancerious eventually, rendering it stripped clean of anything valuable. Only decisive, absolute action to limit or halt extradimensional colonialism, and establish the dominant political and military position of the natives, would suffice. Certainly inflammatory. But on the other hand, their actions so far had been measured. Their counterattack on the Taxer raiding fleets in Corona was targeted at ships, supply lines, logistics, rather than the terror campaigns performed by certain other factions. No crimes against sapiency.
"Your thoughts?" XAU Official Malia messaged one of her subordinates, a potential future ambassador she was sponsoring.
"Curious. V'asse comes close to emulating our principles. Did our memes reach him, or was this conclusion independent? It is less strict than our doctrine. It is also flawed."
"How so?"
"No distinction of colonial types, fallacy. Failure to recognize the nature of certain powers as remaining connected to their home dimensions. So long as they maintain this connection, they will be acting on behalf of counter-Ancerious agendas. It would also be illogical for them to abandon this connection so long as they are loyal to their prime universe. In other words, certain colonials cannot ever align their interests with natives without forsaking their original loyalties."
"Correct. They are part of a greater organism, one that exists outside this reality. The Canton for example. Why would they act against their multiversal patrons for the wellbeing of a single galaxy? It would be counterproductive."
"Indeed. But this is obvious, is it not? So why would Obchara's speech be approved? It would make CONA look foolish."
"Unless there is another goal to this conference. A more sympathetic set of memes being disseminated, to slow the progress of the war."
"It is possible."
"We will have to see."
"Excuse me? Mr. 'Vol'nisa'?"
The voriarch had been in small talk with an assistant when he heard the voice. As the Zetyan turned, he saw a young woman behind him with a triad of guards in suit following her.
Hlaea Nosqet, former Roche-sur-Laisson shipyard manager turned OCCCA immigrant, was the event's third speaker. A noted hardliner in petty influencer politics, she'd been a staunch nativist since before CONA had even been an idea. The Reports galvanized her, Aedleshaven had only tempered her spirits. Most on the opposite side considered her a fanatic; the fanatics in CONA argued she didn't go far enough. Belief in active colonial suppression, embargoes, kneecapping and staphing of colonials and their peoples before they could establish dominance. The only reason she wasn't the last speaker was because she rallied against mainland Corona plenty enough and the one who was last usually argued for total war instead.
"Yes? Can I help you?" Vol'nisa queried, cocking his head. It was usually a friendly gesture in the Clanholds.
"I must leave, immediately." She glanced at an open livestream of Marchand, the radiators of Otakemaru heating up like fire in the distance. "I mean no offense, but I am needed elsewhere."
He was taken aback for a moment, somewhat shocked at the sudden revelation. "Oh, um. How so?"
"Crucible." She noted simply. "Everywhere is in danger when that thing fires. Even home in the OCCCA. I am sorry."
The moment of shock remained with the voriarch for some seconds, before he contained it with a polite expression and a nod. "Alright, well, It was an, an honor to have you. I wish you good day and, uh, good luck."
"Yes. Good day to you." She then turned to her guards, nodded, and the triage departed for the gates.
After she was out of sight, he cursed to himself twice, then turned back to the assistant he was talking to. They both regarded each other with expressions that screamed one thing - goddamnit.
Hlaea Nosqet, former Roche-sur-Laisson shipyard worker turned OCCCA immigrant, had been the event's third speaker. And now, courtesy of the Tourmaline Canton, that honor had gone to a Hochlander.
---
The next speaker after V'asse was a Kel'thulian. Al'Ae'Ha Ni'So was as stereotypical for CONA as you could get, right down to mannerisms. She was of a famous populist clique that unilaterally removed itself from the Grand Empire just to the east, the (in)famous Organization for Promotion of the Rights and Powers of Natives, or the ORPRO for short. They had no shortage of celebrities willing to propagandize for their homeland or for other homelands, featuring frequently in minor articles for The Galaxy's Journal and sometimes in ARK.
Al' was built up with propaganda and tailored news, but once freed of the oppressive state. her views were mostly her own. It was everything most moderate nations preached, but not like the starry-eyed optimist's words, the one who had come before her giving the equivalent of a hippy speech. Kel'thulian collectivists may have burned her away with talks of traitorous behaviour and unstately thoughts, but even now they informed her personality, walk, manner of speaking. She was affluent, she wielded some influence in the sphere of celebrities, and while her parents would decry her for taking the 'useless' job of public speaker the 5 figures monthly pay stub was nothing to sneeze at.
The stage called her name, and she answered by taking to the podium as she had many others. Stoic, nodding to the crowd, but refusing all other than that.
"Brothers, sisters. Natives of the galaxy." She started, translator giving her voice a harsh click as her mandibles and vocal chord assemblies maintained a delicate balance of air moving into language. "It is an honor to be here today, speaking with you all. Such opportunites come rarely; especially in the climate of the now."
"I have been asked to share my beliefs, my answer to the Colonial Problem and to the disenfranchisement of natives across the galaxy. This is a simple matter - we must stop Colonials from encroaching on the rights of natives across the galaxy, and we must stop the continued colonial dominance and forceful influence of galactic politics, narratives, and markets. I'm sure most present here know of what I speak of. I will elaborate for those who do not." She spoke with a slight gruffness and laconicity, golden eyes staring across the crowd unblinking with a slight glow to them.
"For decades, colonial powers and those sponsored by them have kept the majority of natives within an iron grip. Natives form the backbone of over 78% of galactic industries, including such necessities as industrial ancerium mining, commodity export, even matter such as basic as food, and produce up to 65% of the galaxy's yearly GDP. Yet colonials keep the spotlight keenly focused upon them, and when one of their own engages in acts of suppression, butchery and cruelty on the natives of our galaxy they assume every opportunity to brush their actions under the rug."
"Look to the late High Imperium, the Dectrose, Capitol. One genocided natives for years and only received conflict through the news, until the colonials sought to steal the glory from those deserving as the Imperium crushed under it's own weight. Dectrothian slavery of natives was only curtailed by their own failings. Capitol led natives along for their own benefit, disposing of them as Inara saw less and less use for them. When we are of no use to them in their petty wars, we are easily forgotten."
"Even 'beneficial' colonials keep us down. Look to Triarch, Carnaith, the Union! Native businesses crowded out by the preexisting power dialectics of colonials, accomplishments nativists by nature such as visiting the satellite galaxies hoarded like gold. Carnaith serves as one of the lynchpins of the galactic economy, same as Triarch."
"And accomplishments nativist in nature are underpinned by the influence of colonials. Native symbols such as Natar, Vaplana - bankrolled by the Union. Visiting our satellites - Union. Site of the next Grindstone - Carnaith. Development of Lost Star after the initial construction, DAMSEL and their influence in the modern galaxy, the Rassmussen trade network - only possible by colonial funding."
"This is what I believe, brothers and sisters - the Colonial problem is not simply a matter of encroachment, but sheer influence. The colonials each shift the scales towards their favor, in technology sectors, in politics, in all matters physical and symbolic. There is only one solution - we must curtail them, and curtail them now, before later we come to regret it under the crushing weight of scales so imbalanced they can only be fixed by breaking them entirely..."
---
She had continued on, speaking as a statesman would as the minutes went by. For some, however, there was matters far more concerning.
The Marchand livestream had grown more frenetic as time went by. The sight seemed the same as before, yet eagle-eyed viewers could notice one thing - Otakemaru was powering up. Radiators beginning to glow red hot, a faint glow coming from it's muzzle. Discourse was abuzz over it, concerned conversation only punctuated by the occasional ambassador taking leave from the station, ships departing on faint occasion to supplicate their homelands.
It was a subtle underpin to an otherwise successful event, a gloom cast over the grove. 'Damn the Canton, Damn Otakemaru.' was the consensus - but consensus was damned by the false glow of Otakemaru, star-killer gleaming in the night.
The ARM delegation, connected to the flow of data as they were, could not help but notice the rising attention on a certain livestream. Navigating to it was almost natural for them. Who didn't keep a stream or two running during work? Kept the mind active.
They didn't understand what they were looking at, at first. They were from a region that could charitably called a frontier of galactic civilization. Uncharitably, a backwater. Pivotal common knowledge had a chance of flying right over their heads due to the sheer scale of the galaxy.
They learned fast though. The nature of the Crucible, its history, the implications of this act. Malia's expression was blank, but internally she was shocked. Of course, as a Peer, she wouldn't have a body which would automatically reveal her emotional state. Her attendants which had not entirely shed their biological flesh, those whose faces were visible, could not help but look concerned.
"Compose yourself." Malia messaged swiftly. "Inject sedatives if you have to."
One did, looking like he was about to start hyperventilating before the drugs hit his system and his eyes glazed slightly.
Malia made note of that. If he had the presence of mind to give himself an adrenaline shot to bring him back to functional capacity after his panic had passed, such professionalism would be rewarded.
"This is a good opportunity to observe the other guests here. We have not attended many CONA functions officially. Let us see how our compatriots handle the news. It will prove enlightening."
She would be rewarded for returning with the information, of course. Aedelshaven was a worry that lingered in the Administration's mind. Could CONA be trusted to function intelligently in the face of something like this? Currently it was incredibly unlikely the ARM nor herself were in danger, so her head was clear. They were in this alliance for benefits, their commitment genuine, but also mercenary. CONA was the flag which suited the interests of the ARM to fight under. But if it appeared that CONA could either not protect itself in this situation, or would respond in such a way that remaining in the alliance was no longer viable, well.
It would be good to inform the Administration of that.
She told herself all of this as she tried to master her own emotions. Her demibiological flesh would never betray her, but the sinking feeling in her stomach was as real as it would have been in her original body.
Whether CONA proves a worthy ally or not, this was bad.
Cosya Ihimi had been patiently listening to the speeches of the various delegates, but her mind was elsewhere. Alongside her people, she watched in increasing horror as the superweapon moved itself into position. Every cry, every plea, every effort brushed aside and totally ignored.
For a moment, exactly point zero-zero-zero-three seconds in real time, the Clade considered attacking it. A break in vow, a shattering of ontology, a sacrifice of intent, but something that may save billions of lives. For them, it was a solid day of debate. Voices ragged in exhaustion labored to come to consensus, to agree on what to do.
All the while, the malevolent object continued unabated towards its helpless goal.
Cosya Ihimi could not hide her agitation, nor would she.
Her tail thumped the floor behind her and her eyes were pinpricks on the screen. She had voted within the consensus six times now in favor of destroying the Crucible. Every iteration where consensus failed, a new attempt had to be made. Six times now she had gone through The Great Moot and added her thoughts, but the needle had not budged.
Historically, she knew what to expect from the other species. Escalation was inevitable if the weapon was fired, but she also knew that was likely the intent of either the power actively deploying the weapon or the ones who held their leash. It still did not make the decisions or choices any easier.
It took herculean effort to pay attention to the second speaker. She recognized the species, but not the person. Straining to listen, she took note of something which gave her rancor pause. The Colonial Problem.
Is this what we will be seen as? Ultimately? A colonial problem?
There would be hardliners, no matter what happened. Weapon firing or no, there would be factions that would seek what they saw as justice from any that would fall under the label of "colonial" - whether they wished to or not.
If the Meta-Sax acted, if they attacked, what then?
Would the ramifications spill out to the other nations labeled as such? Would it be seen as verification by SAGA's most extreme elements to escalate? Would CONA use it as a rallying cry? Would the Meta-Sax stand alone in that effort, and suffer the brunt of retaliation?
It cast doubt in an instant.
As the speech continued, Cosya Ihimi's doubts grew further. Al'Ae'Ha Ni'So was correct in their assessment that a rebalancing was needed in galactic affairs. But could an outsider-nation like the Meta-Sax participate in such a capacity, without tarnishing the effort? Would it not be wiser to offer support, mild as it may be, to the endeavors of those who seek a balance?
She ground her teeth, uncertainty growing. The riders who shared her consciousness to observe the events felt the emotions as well, letting it echo across them and into the rest of The Great Moot. Her doubt become their doubt.
If it is to change, it must be change led by the people born here. We are no longer Home. We are no longer protectors. We must find our place alongside the peoples who want to build towards balance. Towards cooperative futures.
In an ironic twist, it was the speech by Al'Ae'Ha Ni'So which convinced the Consensus to vote against intervention.
The Herskalites were, to the best of their abilities, paying attention to the speaker. Duchess Surnak had, on more than one occasion, had glanced back in some concern as the Ministry of Defense's attaché furiously flipped through an identification booklet. Her attention was quickly brought back to the speaker by the mention of Capitol.
"Capitol... defilers, demons...."
She spoke in her native tongue, in as hushed a tone as she could. The rest of the entourage recognized the name of their mortal foe, the devils that introduced them to the horrors of nuclear warfare, laid them bare to the galaxy. The terrarium temporarily exploded into a flash of color as the Verkroans splayed out their fins in anger, hissing, hushed bellows, and snapping jaws emanating from their ranks.
The Ministry of Defense's attaché found, at last, the page he was looking for. It was in rather thin section of the identification book, and yet it was the most feared- superweapons. He scrambled over to the duchess, his panicked hissing breaking the respectful silence the Herskals had been trying to maintain, thrusting the page in front of the Duchess. At first, she looked annoyed, before her fins closed shut and she seemed to shrivel up on the branch, staring at the displayed stream, the reality painfully sinking in.
What was on the stream presented itself as perhaps the greatest fear that the Herskal Directorate could actually fathom: a star killer. Something that possessed the capability to destroy Krakieda and its system, and with it, the entire Verkroan species, allegiance to the Herskal Directorate be damned. A weapon that was now being brought online with the intent to fire, though Surnak knew not the target. Not that it's target particularly mattered, of course; it was unlikely to be her homeland, given the Herskal's insignificance. What worried her was the fact it was being used, and the dangerous precedent it may set for future wars- wars the Herskals could be in.
Moguls muttered to themselves in the shadows. The Sodalyte captains of industry were content to chat amongst themselves, but off in one of the corners, away from the Umi and her crowd, a blob fizzed and became tissue-thin on one of its chords.
The Happosei's lips imparted sound onto it as she made notes to herself, clacking a complementary pen to punctuate each point.
"Happosei Utsosuki-0012, C'evets Conference. Speech two."
Click.
"Moderates still take moral high ground. Obchara V'asse. Orillian. Even they call for greater colonial oversight."
. . .
Click.
She tilted her head.
"Growing discontent with colonial presence in moderate discourse. Monitor for fringe factions becoming more mainstream."
A lock of 'hair' covered one of her eyes.
"Actually, make that a full report. Marchand Incident will play a big part in this. Jump on a press release ASAP."
Click.
Click.
Click.
Her lips curled in distaste.
"...Put reporting for the Kel'thulian civil war on the backburner. Keep tabs, but put it in the sidebars."
Ursyllix had been surprisingly quiet throughout the event.
The Orillians had always been fiery, using oratory and lead from the front to ensure their goals.
And yet here, he simply stood back to observe others speak. The fiery language of Anti-Colonialism, the impassioned speeches of a much more moderate approach. All washed over him as he spoke to various CONA representatives who sought him out and wished to speak about diplomatic, economic or military matters. Ursyllix was happy to oblige, but he did not try to take the spotlight, he watched others. After all how could you guage support for your ideology if you were the one screaming about it?
He had been pleasantly surprised at what had been said so far, but the live updates about the Canton and Marchand situation caused him to tense in anticipation.
Would they really make an action so bold as to wipe out an entire native people after such geopolitical blowback?
It turned out they would.
As the fires of Marchands death illuminated Ursyllix face a hint of a sneer could be observed for a brief moment before it disappeared into the usual look of horror, surprise and upset that he knew he should show.
The Free State had expected such an outburst, although much later into the war when the colonials were pinned to the wall. He hadn't in his wildest dreams expected such an act now.
As murmurs, shouting, chanting and shock rolled across the venue Ursyllix stepped forward and spoke, his voice rose high.
"Never forget this day brothers and sisters. This day is a symbol, it is the colonials burning their self appointed supremacy into our hearts. It is a statement of intent, of power to freighten us into backing down. Do not back down. This will be a symbol yes, we will try to help as many Marchanders that survived, but it will be a symbol of unity for us. The colonials wish for Marchands death to be the tombstone of native destiny. It will instead be a monument. I call upon all here to redouble their efforts for the CONA cause, we shall too do the same. For those of you here who claim to be moderate, neutral even" He pointed at the afterglow of the Marchand star as it died.
"There's your neutrality, there's your moderate outcome. I wish there was another way. But we must fight, lest we too be exterminated from the galaxy"
Brank — 10/01/2023 9:45 PM
Ka'li'bo had just left the stall with the Voriarch and Umi as the Kel'thulian's speech came to a close. A stream appeared on his small goggle, and his mandibles closed up-- his eyes dimming in worry. Things were only getting worse
A crucible, aimed at a native star, preparing to fire with no sign of stopping in sight. Despite his relatively moderate views, the gleaming second-star that was Otakemaru sickened him to his very core. Utter annihilation that even mirdiff could only dream of, at the fingertips of extremist madmen such as the Cantonese. He stood off to the side of the crowd's slowing ebb-and-flow and cursed silently to himself, a dreadful worry washing over him.
If Canton is so willing to wipe Sarnath out, how long will it be until the station is pointed at kelthul?
His train of thought was cut off by the sharp, harsh words of the Orillian envoy; his gleaming, hateful perogatory earning a sneer's equivalence from the Kel'thulian. Violence breeds violence, Hate breeds hate, Death breeds death. A sickening, twisting spiral with boundless depths, ever harder to escape from. A spiral his old home had fallen to, and one that the Canton might be dragging nations across the galaxy into.
As the hour passed, the glow over Marchand only glowed brighter and brighter. Otakemaru's fuse had been lit and nothing could stop it, not in time. At a certain point, it seemed like it would fire any minute, radiators glowing white-hot in the night while a sun of it's own churned in the depths.
It had to have happened eventually.
15:02 SGT, Otakemaru fires.
15:04 SGT, Marchand is dissolved in starfire. The stream is cut as the supernova reaches the planet, along with millions upon millions of lives.
By the time the third speaker had come onto stage, the venue had dissolved into shock and horror. There was no fanfare for him, not out of disrespect but of divided attention. He was a Hochlander, a brusque-looking old man with scars lining his face and body, hair shades of silver and black. Ursyllix's impassioned speech only drew more eyes and more ears, emotion the perfect pestle for the political mortar.
"He's right."
A foreign voice with heavy accent playing over the speakers caused confusion, and the crowd's attention to return to the podium. He let the silence hang for a moment, before continuing.
"I am Gerard Haubspitte von Drussig. I am a three-times veteran of the Boreal Jihad, former Oberfeldwebel of the combined Bundeswehr of the Hochlander Republic. I have fought in the Hochlands across multiple theaters and battles. Eichenzell. Sonneborn. Stedinged. I watched Mirdif scorch entire systems wholesale, abominations crawling across the plains. Fire across the Federation." He spoke quietly but forcefully, disgust on his tongue like a parasite.
"Millions dead. In my home, the OCCCA, the Little Light. And yet! We beat off Al-Mirdif, drove him to extinction even if his memory refuses to die. They said it was impossible; we proved them wrong." He gestured broadly. "Everyone received help, of course. From almost all corners of the galaxy as well; once, I fought with a man who hailed from the Outer Halo, and another from Hyperes. Good men; I know them to live to this day."
"But every time, there has been one outlier." He suddenly adopted a growl, like a beast spying prey. "One group, one peoples, that never concede, never stoop down. The supposed masters of this galaxy were powerless in the face of Mirdif, of Corona, of themselves. And never once have they pledged their full help, if any to the natives below them, not even the Union!"
"When the OCCCA burned, did they send men and material to defend them?! NO! When the Hochlands beat off Mirdif for good, did they deign to help us rebuild?! NO! Did they cure AFA?! Did they lay waste to the Eclipse Lords?! NO!" Fire entered his voice, and his lungs became a furnace choked with coal. "They claim to be on our side, yet look! Watch how they fight amongst themselves even now, how they genocide at wanton will, how they gnash and rage and bellow like frothing animals while wearing the skin of men!"
"Even now they put us to the torch!" He gestures forcefully to the frozen frame of the Marchand livestream, a split-second of the planet burning like charcoal. "Marchand is the victim of a force beyond anyone's control, and yet here they simply deign to - what - reignite the fire?! With the same weapon that they invented?!" He turns back to the crowd, eyes full of fire. "This is your 'moderation', your 'ideal outcome'! They shall crush you and beat you and whip you like dogs for eternity and you will smile and clap for their boot and glove to choke you again!"
And suddenly, the lighting cut and turned red, softly pulsating. Holographic banners giving a warning about a war state popped up on every wall, warnings about this system being a target, an automated voice and alarm tone politely requesting for evacuation procedures. Fuel for the fire, as the station's security team kicked off their protocols for the inevitable and shrouded Gerard in crimson shadow, light-reflecting eyes giving him the silhouette of an angry ghost.
"AND SO I TELL YOU THAT THERE IS ONLY ONE SOLUTION! WE MUST FIGHT, WE MUST BLEED AND SWEAT AND GNASH AND RAGE, UNTIL EVERY COLONIAL CANNOT SO MUCH AS LIFT A FINGER! IT MUST BE UNDERSTOOD THAT NOW WE MUST BURN EVERY FIELD, KILL EVERY SOLDIER, RAZE EVERY CITY! SO LONG AS THE COLONIAL EXISTS, THE NATIVE IS IN DANGER! HE MUST ENACT TOTAL, UNRESTRICTED WAR, UNTIL HE CAN SECURE THE FUTURE FOR HIMSELF AND HIS PEOPLES AND THE PEOPLES THAT COME BEFORE AND AFTER HIM!"
"WE WILL NOT BE SILENCED! WE WILL NEVER BE SILENCED, AND UNLESS YOU ARE OF THOSE WHO ENJOY THE LEATHER OF THEIR JACKBOOTS UPON YOUR THROATS WE MUST NEVER STOP OUR CAUSE, NEVER WAVERING, NEVER YIELDING! NEVER!"
And as he kept ranting, the security teams began mobilizing to escort, as the army of attendants now began urging everyone to evacuate, to leave this place and return to their homes amongst the stars...
"Oh."
"How formidable."
"Things are escalating?"
The death of Marchand was intimidating, but the ARM had witnessed from on far the first and second galactic wars during their time as a backwater morass of starving refugee ships, stranded in the frontier. From their perspective, planets winked out of this galaxy like embers from a bonfire. It was not unheard of. But it never happened to them. This still held true, for now. This war was a distant affair, and no one had any personal connections to those whose voices were now silenced. In the abstract, they were a statistic.
"Should we endorse this speaker?" A secondary official asked. Malia sent a negative emote through their private message system.
"I shall handle it. Do as I do."
Malia's tall body unfurled from the seats with laconic grace. While others panicked, the transhuman gave the impression of fixed focus upon the stage, as if moved by the Hochlander's speech. His emotions were felt, that was certain. Like any A-human, she possessed an appropriate amount of mirror neurons, the hardware by which a human-derived organism could simulate the emotions of another being possessing a similar psychological make-up, and in doing so establish an emotional bond with them, and feel compelled to aid them or understand their point of view. However, Malia was also a Peer, an organism curated by the selection processes of A-human society to be driven by self-interest. Gerard's words washed over her and she allowed herself to experience them fully. His grievances, his anger, his righteousness. She allowed the demibiological musculature of her face to shape itself in the expressions such emotions elicited. She did not force it, merely allowed her body and mind to react as a human would. A grim resolve, an understanding. Not full enrapturement, perhaps, but certainly a kind of comprehension. It was perfectly reasonable why such a person may feel the way he did.
Even so, it did not fully align with the goals of the ARM, and she crushed the paths which her emotions would have led her in favor of the goal she had already been set on. Total commitment to such an extremist view, that would be a commitment which one could not back down from. Even so, as a diplomat, her words, her actions, how she was perceived, would affect those who witnessed her there. Controlling perception of information, of the vision of others, is itself a weapon. Like a basilisk, just looking at a curated sensory configuration could force you to come to a certain conclusion, feel a certain way. In the case of the basilisk, it was death. In Malia's case, it was to project an image to CONA. A willing participant, one moved by the suffering of the people. A stoic and rational figure, not swept up in the orator's fiery words yet understanding of them. And one who bravely stood and listened while others panicked and fled! Holding the pose long enough to be easily captured by cameras, not enough to become unnatural. She turned and led her entourage along at a languid pace.
Should even a single individual of power within CONA take note of such a mien, and perhaps think favorably of the ARM's attitude displayed by its ambassadors, then XAU official Jelis Malia had accomplished her goal. By her calculations, this catastrophe was fortuitous. It offered an excellent opportunity for positive exposure, which then may lead to greater opportunities, greater fortune.
That the citizens of Marchand died for it was an afterthought.
Utsosuki stood, pushing the recorder-ball into her skin through the membrane of her cheek. Her cheek-spots went a dull, milky white - a signal for intense negativity - as she followed the evacuation lights along the floor. She tried to catch a glimpse of the Umi through the chaos - a trail of pink hair floating atop the floor, or maybe even a congregation of other Nami-Types - but frustratingly, the enormous Sodalyte had already vanished into the crowd, as improbable as her size made such a feat. Scowling, Suki retrieved the recorder-ball from her mouth again, tapping the edge and thinning the membrane to mutter another note to herself as the pandemonium around her crashed out of a rising action into the full-blown chaos of bodies pressed against bodies.
"Make the Marchand Report a priority," she growled, shoving aside a Deruid colonyperson with one of her gloved hands, "and get it out as soon as possible. I want a full video and coverage."
She popped the bubble through her face again, trailing it down through the jacket of her suit and presumably somewhere under the tight hem of her business-skirt.
"Fucking monkey politics," she seethed, the four-pointed spikes in her bangs bristling irritably like little silver stars. "I should've just stuck with the local division."
By the time von Drussig had finished his nationalist rant, the station was half evacuated. By the time most of the ships had left, everyone else had boarded their own.
When the Voriarch had exited the security atrium above, emerging into a lobby no longer ensconced in crimson hues and narrated by a voice of faux concern, it was almost haunted. Save the occasional orderly beginning the vestiges of clean-up work, the Ce'vets had been deserted of it's intended population, leaving only the crew it had started with to clean up the mess. A dead mall aborted of it's patrons.
His gaze was even and his expression stoic as he surveyed aimlessly, but his thoughts were a wildfire. Had it been successful? It seemed as such. Discourse had filled the atrium as water would a tank, even if he only participated in a meagre amount. There had been little incident, save Marchand and Gerard, maybe the OCCCA representative taking leave. It felt too good to be true - was it really? He'd only find out as the week progressed, how the Conference had fared in the wider geopolitical sphere.
A silent sigh escaped his nostrils, and he thought uninterrupted even as an escort informed him by radio he too was to make his departure. He meandered his way through the station, rapping his fingers on manicured wood while passing a portrait of an old war hero from the Age of Awakening, marching towards the hangar doors which silently beckoned his presence. The feeling was indescribable - bittersweet was no descriptor, neither was hollow. Anticipatory anxiety? Stress? Maybe the wake of an emotional tide. A psychologist would know, and a psychologist he was not.
In any case, it was time to leave. The evacuation order had no exceptions.
And after many moments had passed, the first shuttle was the last to depart, eking from the Ce'vets into the void, a red light growing dim in a sea of ochre black like many before it.
A die had been cast.