BZPB: Resurgence

<Pirate Lord’s Quarters, The Missing M, Deep Space>

Blackout only gave Akzer an imperious scowl in return, but the cogs in his mind were already turning. Part of him thought there was something almost adorable about this pirate. As the Void saw it, like all of his ilk, Akzer had been taught to always think in terms of the next hunt, the next pile of loot, and the next factional scuffle over said pile of loot, and never knew what to do with himself in-between - especially now that the Shattering had made those in-betweens longer than they remembered.

And it was that exact ancestral itch in Akzer’s reptilian mind that Blackout was finally going to scratch.

“Your kind are too complacent,” he finally said aloud. “You want to be Lord of the Seven Metal Seas so badly. At this rate, in a few years no one will care who the Lord of the Seven Metal Seas is.”

The air in Akzer’s quarters sharply grew colder, and something almost like a veil of water flowing from left to right, then from right to left again, appeared between the two men. In the water, Akzer could make out images, as though they were somehow reflected in the water. It showed him members of the Espiritu Blanco swashbuckling their way through space and living it up on Vesa Qatoria, while once-great Pirate Lords fell on hard times.

“If you don’t do something, Akzer, they will replace you.” the Void spat. “But I think that would be a waste. So I will make you the same offer I did before the Shattering. I can arrange for another one of your rivals - whoever you choose - to die. When they die, everyone will know that the Blancos did it. And in the meantime, make sure you can be the one to say ‘I told you so.’”

The absurdity of pitting his new toys against his old ones was not lost on the Void at all, but set against the most important thing in the universe, what was a little absurdity?

—--

<Yari III, PM Gunship>

After hearing Rain’s contribution, as well as seeing the books on his bookshelf, Aster moved her jaw to the side again. She told herself she was looking to be dissuaded from what seemed to her to be the most likely, and yet obviously unpalatable course of action, but unfortunately the adamah seemed to have stopped just short of expressing an actual idea. It was just words gumming up the works, just at the moment when Aster was looking to hear something practical, and she didn’t appreciate that.

—

Everything was fine.

The gunship pilot was a seasoned professional, a veteran of the Resistance who’d also done several tours against the New Order. He knew what he was doing. The ship had been thoroughly checked for explosives, and there had been no reports of enemy activity in the system for some time. Even the weather was fine. And yet, he just couldn’t shake the feeling that something funky was about to happen.

It was at this point that raindrops began splashing against the cockpit. First a few, and then many more. The previously clear sky darkened as clouds gathered abruptly - unnaturally so, frankly - and in the distance, one could make out the flash of lightning. The crew didn’t need their instruments going haywire to be able to tell that something extremely strange had just happened, but they did so anyway.

The pilot quickly took stock of the situation, and there was only one thing to do. As his co-pilot quickly yelled something into the intercom to reassure the passengers, he swung the gunship slightly east and tried to rise far above the cloud tops. Anyone on board who had recognisable ears would have felt their ears pop unpleasantly.

—

“That’s all very well and good, Ra- Van. I’d love to do that,” she finally said, as the gunship wobbled. “But in the meantime, Sukhonia is still far too close for comfort, and the Vesa Qatorians are only getting stronger. For now we’re just a market, but the supply situation has been bad as it is since the event. I’m afraid the next step will be raids on our shipping, or a blockade. No, I need them pushed the hell away from our border.”

“Reuniting the Trilateral would be a powerful symbol of hope,” somebody else in the room volunteered.

“Hope…” Aster muttered, as if she hadn’t heard that word in a long time.

—-

<Vesa Qatoria, Lazarus Zone, 1h15 since tournament start>

Another one bites the dust, the blond man thought to himself as he heard the explosive he’d planted go off in the distance, taking out an unsuspecting Malchiorian contestant who up until the end truly believed he had the upper hand.

Objectively, Ashton Carney was doing quite well in the tournament. Barely an hour in, and he’d already eliminated two of his opponents, and without even a scratch on himself. While that usually would have tickled his vanity, this time it worried him. Not because of self-doubt, but because it meant he was getting closer to having to make the most dangerous decision of his life.

On top of his combat gear, Ashton was wearing a pair of dog tags, into which he’d carved not anything to do with himself - he knew better than to expect anyone in a place like this to care - but two names. One of them bore Regina Faral’s name, as she was the person he had joined this tournament hoping to revive, but the other one bore the name of the person he was expected by his client to revive. Needless to say, he wasn’t looking forward to having to make the choice.

As he finished planting blocks of C4 on the ceiling and began to sneak up the final flight of stairs leading to the roof of the skyscraper where his next target was camping out, he wondered who the hell ‘Vekhta’ was anyway.

—-

<Malcovus’ Office, Malcovus’ Seasonal Mansion, Malchior IV>

“With all due respect, Secretary-General, I come from the private sector.” Blair replied, trying to phrase things as carefully as possible. That faculty seemed to be escaping him every day he was no longer truly in control. “And when I hear the government tell me that something must be done carefully and diplomatically, I know that what they actually mean is…”

Lazran suddenly stepped in, recognising that Blair was possibly about to endanger their whole mission. “What my friend is trying to say, sir,” he said in his usual oleaginous manner. “Is that power and legitimacy cannot be faked. Right now, one of the key worlds of the FSA is under the control of people who either report to Ne Plus Ultra or have the same MO. No need to make a fuss about it until we’ve won, of course, but a swift strike is the only option that won’t just let the problem fester.”

He glared at Blair, almost as if to say ‘You owe me one’.

—-

<Tanari Prime, Jared Harris City>

Tanari Prime was dead.

Or at least, that’s what someone who gave a damn would have said after taking a single look at what had, somehow, become the new capital city and template for the planet’s reconstruction after the Shattering. Much of the new architecture was clearly trying to ape styles common in the New Order, although using different and sometimes unsuitable building materials, blimps could now be seen hovering above the city, and as far as fashion was concerned, lightweight grey suits and large earpieces seemed to have become the order of the day. Banners dangled from the taller surviving buildings, featuring either Sefer Yetzirah’s face or the slogan ‘Tanar Unchained’. Seferism had seemingly won without even having to openly invade - it had been enough for everyone who should have been in charge to destroy themselves, so that the enemy could waltz in promising to solve a problem, any problem.

Every once in a while, the earpieces would glow a bright blue, and a portion of the population would stop whatever they were doing and begin walking, all as one, towards the large factory that now occupied the city centre, where they would be changed fundamentally and put towards what the new leadership of the planet called ‘the Common Purpose’.

On board the blimp hovering above the factory, Timothy Morgan Veidt looked out of the window, silently watching the newest batch of citizens file into the factory from the above. While he was never a flamboyant man, there was nevertheless something off about Veidt - his movements were stiffer than ever. In the corner, Morgan Peres, wearing soiled and tattered clothes, was sitting at a table, munching on some buttered toast. Both were wearing the same earpieces as everyone else.

The door swung open, and at once both men felt a slight electric shock in their very eyeballs as Olivia Horwath marched in. Veidt turned to salute her so fast it seemed as though he might give himself whiplash.

“Ma’am, Process 170 is on schedule,” he said.

“I know,” Horwath said curtly, and turned to Peres. “Are you pleased?”

“Ma’am,” ‘Morgan’ said with his mouth still full of toast. “I am Morgan Peres.”

“That’s right. Good boy.”

And behind Morgan Peres’ dead eyes, his real personality, the one that had hoped to occupy this body only to be caged again, seethed.

—-

<Palace of the Revolution, Armechius, Vongolan People’s Republic>

Despite the triumph of the rally, some whiplash awaited Uteriach and his entourage, as after returning to the Palace afterwards, they would be greeted by a face that was certainly familiar, but whose presence in the Palace of the Revolution of all places was surreal by any standard.

“One Vongola! Brilliant, even if I do say so myself.” Thomas Phaedrus Kane laughed at the surprised Dachori. He was flanked by Sergei Mikurin and a few other guards wearing clearly stolen VPR uniforms on the one hand and, oddly, a young K’thaan girl wearing an angel pendant on the other.

“Oh, don’t worry about how I got in without an appointment. I didn’t get this far in life without a little audacity.” he snarked. “Besides, everyone knew I was here on urgent business.”

As if on cue, a door swung open, and two more men walked in, dragging a bruised, manacled Joshua Kozin behind them.

“I think we have a few things to discuss. Don’t you?”

—-

<Shangri-La>

In a prior life, David Robert Jones would have been appalled by what he was about to do. It was the sort of politics he’d told himself he’d abhorred all his life, the sort of politics William Douglas Reed engaged in. He shuddered at the thought of the Takemikazuchi demagogue, and wondered if he was still alive. Their brief interactions only confirmed to Jones that he seemed totally empty inside apart from a vague lust for glory, but surely he would have had to appreciate the irony. Had that man won in the end?

At this point, he realised just how self-indulgent his train of thought was. He had signed off on worse things when he was fighting Allman, after all.

“Let justice be done,” he finally said to himself. “Though the heavens fall.”

At which point, all hell broke loose.

The ground beneath them rumbled, as several power conduits running below the city ruptured one after the other. Fires broke out, and soon several residential blocks were in ruins.

Not so long ago, such an event, while undoubtedly a tragedy, would have been dealt with swiftly by the authorities and barely noticed by the New Order as a whole. After all, Blackout’s attacks on Shangri-La had caused far more damage. But the Shattering had kneecapped every state in the galaxy, and Sefer’s once-efficient totalitarian machine - so efficient that few at the heart of the beast even noticed it - was no exception, especially now that it lacked Sefer herself. All else being equal, the authorities would still have reacted, but unlike in the past, their response time was so poor that it gave Jones and Longue Shortman time for their master stroke.

Within an hour, rescue teams began to fill the area where the incident had occurred and help the victims. But these were clearly not affiliated with the New Order, as would have been naturally expected. These rescue workers were wearing nondescript uniforms that seemed to have been cobbled out of whatever had been found lying around, with the only common feature seeming to be that many had the emblem of the white rose - the old logo of Long Shortman’s now ironically long forgotten political party - stitched on. This was a direct challenge to the state, and one that even Arc Kyydan could not respond to without first acknowledging it.

And at the heart of it all, now directing the rescue operation, was David Robert Jones.

—-

[ Shangri-La, Emergency meeting of the Presidium of the New Order ]

In an armored bunker buried within Shangri-La’s dedicated command-and-control colony, Black David, a heated debate was underway. Some of the members of the New Order’s ruling council appeared via holo-conference, beaming in from their stations across the galaxy; others had been in Shangri-La at the time and had proceeded with all haste to the colony. A display of the White Rose terrorist attack - and the bizarre humanitarian response they had staged immediately afterwards - played out on repeat in the center of the chamber.

“This is an unacceptable failure of our internal security apparatus.” opined Arc Yramas, the highest ranking officer in the New Order military, who appeared via long-range holo-transmission from Tygenia. He was still clad in his battle armor, helmet tucked under his arm, as though he had only just stepped off the front line to partake in the conference. “We shall need a full audit of personnel and operations.” he continued. “This should not have happened.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Arc.” replied Draculus di Sanguinio, the Faul’d leader of the Ministry of the Interior. “Your enemies are all clones of the same woman, all clad in the same armor. Ours cast themselves as ordinary people and walk among us. It’s not quite so simple to- to-”

Draculus began to choke, clutching, scratching at the side of his neck. It was Arc Isha who noticed first - casting her gaze up from her holo-tablet to Draculus, then to the projection of Arc Yramas, noticing his free hand clutching the air as if strangling it. Even Sefer’s telekinesis had come with limits to its effective range, but Arc Yramas uniquely possessed the ability to reach out across lightyears if needed - something di Sanguinio had, evidently, forgotten.

In terms of power amongst the non-Adamah Arcs, Yramas had no equal. If Kyydan was the brains of the New Order, Yramas was its mailed fist.

“Watch your tongue, Faul’d.” he spat. “The New Order demands more from its subjects than petty excuses and deflection of blame. See to it that your house is in order, or that task shall be delegated to your replacement.”

Yramas released his hold on Draculus, who promptly collapsed to the conference desk, drawing air in in deep gaps,

“F-forgive me, my lord.”

“Arc Yramas raises a salient point.” said Advent Joshua, the Premier and de jure leader of the New Order. “These White Rose terrorists are just that, terrorists, and they will be dealt with accordingly. But attacks like this don’t happen in a vacuum. We’ve all sensed it, I suspect. Since Sefer departed, there’s been a growing friction in what was once the well-oiled machine of the New Order. Corruption, apathy - give it whatever name you like. But this... this is our wake-up call. It ends here.”

Arc Isha was the first to reply. “I suggest a general amnesty, to begin with. Small-scale corruption has become endemic at all stages of governance, and it won’t do well to purge half the bureaucracy whilst we still have the Ultra Empire breathing down our necks. But beyond this there can be no tolerance.”

“Meaning?” replied Draculus.

“Anyone who profits unjustly at the expense of the state will be relocated to Kharabad. We’ll let the Arokazek have their way with them.”

Kharabad - the gene-forge, a hellscape of flowing blood overseen by the highest echelons of the Psymancer order and their Arokazek gene-artisan servants - was officially a myth. But the central government did little in the way of censoring its existence - after all, it did well to have the general populace vaguely aware of both a place and a fate worse than death awaiting those who would strike out against the New Order.

“Action is needed.” Agreed Kang-Ki Young, leader of the Ministry of Culture. “But I worry that we may be striking out at the symptom, not the cause. When PLUTUS first caused this schism, the hardcore zealots - the Seferists - near-universally sided with his so-called Ultra Empire. And whilst I won’t lament the departure from our ranks of the extremists who perpetrated the destruction of Geihmurs, the reality is that what remains of our general populace is far less enthusiastic about our cause than before the split.”

A new voice spoke, deep, ethereal, artificial - the walls of the chamber opening as a vast, ornate holding tank of murky fluid slid in of its own volition, its occupant addressing the Presidium.

“Was our cause just because Sefer led us? Or did Sefer lead us because our cause was just?”

The response was near-universal. Arc and non-Arc, Adamah and non-Adamah - even Arc Yramas, light-years away through a holo-connection, fell to their knees and bowed.

"Arc Kyydan, my lord.”

There was no discerning Kyydan’s true form from within the murk of his tank - no discerning how horrifically distorted his physiology was from its original intent. The fluid moved like ochre fog, slowly pulsing outwards and inwards, as if synchronized to the breathing of some vast aquatic beast.

“Young speaks wisely, and furthermore, is correct.” continued Arc Kyydan. “But the patriots who laid down their lives on the field of battle for the New Order did so for precisely that reason, not for Sefer herself. And they were not fools. Yramas-”

“Yes, my lord.”

“-Of the troops under your command, how many are neophytes?”

Neophytes. Empires of old might have called them colonials. Citizens born on worlds that were later assimilated into the New Order, and guaranteed the same rights and protections as citizens born in Shangri-La itself.

“Sixty percent, my lord. On Tygenia, eighty-thousand shock troops, two-hundred thousand staff and personnel.”

“And would you vouch for their loyalty, Arc Yramas?”

“Without hesitation, my lord. I would trust any one of them with my own life.”

“You see, unlike most of us gathered here, neophytes do actually know a life other than the New Order.” continued Kyydan, turning his attention back to the gathered presidium. “They know barbarism, brutality, where the powerless are objects and the rapists are kings. They know disease and illness and disability left untreated, to fester, for lack of profit in healing it. They know inequality, know division, know injustice. And the New Order arrived on their worlds and tore down the old ways, and the pain and the suffering ended. When these neophytes take to the battlefield, they do so not to venerate a single woman. They do so because, unlike many amongst us, they actually know what they stand to lose. They fight and they die for the ideal that is the New Order. An ideal Shangri-La is starting to forget, and as such, is long overdue for a reminder.”

“What do you propose, my lord?” hissed Draculus.

“Track down the White Rose. Detain all of them, but harm none of them. And bring their leaders to me. I want to understand what it is that drives them, and what they think they can offer the New Order that we cannot. And then I will instruct them in the errors of their ways.”

“It shall be done, my lord. Long Live... the New Order.”

“Long Live the New Order."

<F█████ B█████ Detainment Facility, Near Ardennes Army Base, Malchior IV, Four Months After the Shattering, Three Months Before Tournament Start>

Lights and shadows passed along Klak’s glowering face as the elevator took him, Nadle, Salem, Haley, and two other Presidential Guards down to Level 115.

The air was tense. Caiaphus, Klak’s old nemesis-turned-Arc of the New Order, had been caught aboard a freighter on Malchior IV. Flight logs showed he had stolen it from the recovery crews in the orbit of Lanorra a few weeks after the Shattering, then took it to New Order space, then Vesa Qatoria, and a few other locations. Luckily, Malchiorian police found him on Malchior IV and arrested him, transferring to one of the most secure facilities in the system–or at least, what was left after the Shattering.

Klak was shocked that Caiaphus was even alive. He had sworn he had finally destroyed him six years ago, when Caiaphus threatened Klak’s adoptive family on Malchior IV and forced him to leave a battle in the Tau Ceti system to fight him. But, as it turned out, Caiaphus somehow survived and eventually ran into Sefer Yetzirah herself in an unknown place. She forged a new body for him and named him an Arc.

And worst of all, multiple people in Malchiorian intelligence knew about it, but kept Klak in the dark. Even Nadle Akutam, Director of the Malchiorian Defense Intelligence (MDI) agency and one of Klak’s closest friends, refused to disclose any of it. In fact, it was all Nadle’s idea. He asked the rest of the spy community who “needed to know” to simply use the code “YELLOW JESTER” to refer to Caiaphus in files and to avoid bringing him up near the President.

“Mr. President,” Nadle said, breaking the silence. “I understand why you’re concerned.”

“Concerned?” Klak scoffed. “I’m fucking livid, Nadle. You’re one of the few people I can trust in this government nowadays, and you pull this on me?”

“Klak….” Nadle muttered.

“That monster tried to kill you, me, and my parents several times,” Klak barked. “And he nearly succeeded! You didn’t think I’d need to know that he was alive and cooperating with the enemy?!”

“I did what I had to do,” Nadle countered, his voice raising slightly. “When we found out, it hadn’t been long after your inauguration. You had an entire Protectorate to lead. If we had told you immediately…you would have gotten distracted.”

“That’s not your call to make, Nadle,” Klak hissed.

“All due respect,” Nadle’s voice raised higher. “You put me on this position because you wanted me to make those decisions. Decisions that you weren’t always going to like. All for the greater good.”

“Greater good?!” Klak roared.

“Mr. President…Klak…if I may,” Salem offered. “Nadle merely did wha-”

“No, you may not, Salem,” Klak interrupted. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Salem furrowed his brow and tensed his jaw. The old him would have likely reacted in kind, but he reminded himself to turn the other cheek. Haley’s eyes moved over to Salem and broadcasted a knowing glance to him.

Silence gripped the group once again as the elevator arrived. A group of prison guards awaited them on the other side of the doors.

“Nadle and I are going in alone,” Klak said determinedly.

Haley’s jaw slightly dropped as the guards’ eyes all widened.

“No, I can’t let you do that,” she declared, stepping in front of him.

“Let me, Agent Fieldstone?” Klak grumbled.

The pair glared at each other.

-

Caiaphus raised his head at the two men who entered his darkened room. His wall restraints tightened. The power dampener grew stronger. As the lights dissipated the darkness, Caiaphus saw why.

“Klak Vell,” he grinned. “It’s been too long. I missed you.”

“Caiaphus,” Klak replied coldly. “I should have known you were still alive.”

“Yes,” Caiaphus chuckled. “You should have written. Oh, and I see Nadle is with you! Ah, Nadle. The loyal friend.”

“I see you’re Sefer’s attack dog now,” Klak taunted. “Or is it Advent Joshua? Or Arc Kyydan? I can never keep track.”

“Charming as usual, Mr. President,” Caiaphus mocked. “But I’m no dog. The Emperor and I brokered a fruitful alliance.”

“Little good did it do you,” Klak sneered. “And don’t try to swindle your way out of this one. I’ve outgrown all of your games.”

Caiaphus rolled his eyes and then froze. He suddenly noticed something peculiar about Klak.

“...You think you’re clever, don’t you?” he inquired suspiciously.

“Excuse me?” Klak replied.

“No, not you,” Caiaphus whispered.

Suddenly, Klak and Nadle somehow froze in place. A man seemed to step forth out of thin air.

“The infamous Caiaphus,” Previaus Dahrk purred. “What a pleasure it is to finally meet you. You would have made a wonderful Arc…the real Arcs. Not Sefer’s cruel mockery.”

“Who are you?” Caiaphus spat.

“I am Prevaius Dahrk,” the Yuzari apparition replied. “Yuzari scientist and acolyte of the Kanos Jai. But that is not important. We share a common goal.”

“Do we now?” Caiaphus raised an eyebrow.

“Despite our affiliations, we both love pandemonium,” Prevaius grinned. “And we both wish to see young Klak achieve his true potential. I learned who he truly is…what he will become.”

Caiaphus seemed shocked at first, then smiled.

“Then we can work together, Prevaius,” Caiaphus nodded. "A deadly alliance...."

The apparition disappeared. Somehow, Klak and Nadle seemed to come back to life, acting as though nothing had happened.

“Face it, Caiaphus,” Klak boasted. “This prison is specifically designed to hold Arcs like you. You won’t escape.”

Just after Klak tempted fate, klaxons boomed throughout the facility. Nadle pulled out his sidearm and checked his communicator. The panicking soldiers reported that a drillbot, piloted by Rahn, dug into the northern end.

Haley and Salem burst in, but their attempt was in vain. One of the walls suddenly blasted open. Treveya Q leaped through. She threw an EMP grenade at Caiaphus and fired her rifle at Haley, Salem, and Nadle.

Klak summoned a shield to protect his comrades. He glanced up and saw Caiaphus triumphantly leaving his restraints. The Arc stood alongside Treveya and opened a portal.

“No!” Klak shouted. He tackled Caiaphus into the portal. Before Haley or the others could even react, Klak was gone.

-

<Random Field, Malchior IV>

Klak, Caiaphus, and Treveya fell through the portal and crashed onto the ground. Both Klak and Caiaphus stood up.

“I’m looking forward to seeing how well Veras and the others trained you,” Caiaphus sneered.

“Shut up, Caiaphus!” Klak yelled.

He charged at Caiaphus with two magically constructed swords. The Arc hovered back and blasted the ground, rocks blasting the human back.

A tan light coursed through Caiaphus’ fingers as he prepared to use a fragmentation blast against Klak. However, in his haughtiness, he failed to see Klak using his enhanced speed to get closer. Klak knocked him back and started punching him several times.

Caiaphus summoned a shadow shield to help drive Klak back. He then peppered the Malchiorian with shadow bolts, but Klak blocked them with his magic and inched closer. He then lunged at Caiaphus and repeatedly punched the Arc’s head with glowing fists. He kicked Caiaphus to the ground and charged an energy blast.

Suddenly, Treveya appeared behind Klak. She immediately started to feed on Klak’s life force. Klak felt himself age two years and yelled in pain. Caiaphus stood up and grinned.

“What was first just a dream has become a frightening reality for those who may oppose us,” he boasted. “Well done, Commander Treveya.”

“Thank you, Arc Caiaphus,” she replied. Klak gasped as he recognized her voice as being that of the reporter from The Witz. But before he could say anything, Caiaphus jabbed him in the spine, knocking him out.

—

<Months Later, Palace of the Revolution, Armechius, Vongolan People’s Republic, A Few Days Before Tournament Start>

Uteriach’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Cassandra Cromwell’s arm immediately shot up, training dual pistols at Kane and one of his guards. K’thaan and uniformed VPR soldiers flanked her, weapons armed.

The Rider’s eyes darted back as he heard the hum of Figlio’s ship, confirming that his son was safely on his way to his mission on Vesa Qatoria. Next, Uteriach’s mind rushed through various strategies, as years of combat experience and genetic modifications helped him game out different scenarios of engagement with Kane and his soldiers. But the fact that they had penetrated this far into the Palace of the Revolution meant that the battalion guarding it had either been decimated…or compromised.

“No, no,” Uteriach raised his arms nonchalantly. He turned back to Kane. “A bold move, Mr. Kane. Or is it Baron? I cannot recall what the dissidents in Sards call you nowadays. Nevertheless, a daring play. Commendable.”

He glanced over to Joshua Kozín and grinned.

“The traitor…betrayed in turn,” he taunted quietly, then returned to his group.

Rahksha, who stood alongside Uteriach, noticed the pendant on the young K’thaania’s neck and staggered back in shock.

“[By the gods and spirits],” he gasped in K’thaanit. The K’thaan soldiers all turned to the girl and froze in terror.

Uteriach noticed this and pursed his lips.

“Yes, we do have a few things to discuss. Lower your weapons, all of you,” he calmly commanded. “No need for the manacles either. Mr. Kane, you and Mr. Kozín can meet me in my office. The rest of you, avoid killing each other.”

-

Joshua winced as he adjusted in his seat, his bruises rubbing against the leather. He stared first at Thomas P. Kane next to him, then at Uteriach, sitting upright before a majestic ptarrawood desk. Behind the Dachori was a magnificent painting of Tenugin–the Rider who earned a place on the species’ pantheon after transforming Shinar-Karana’s citizens from a group of warring nomadic spacer tribes into a fledgling star empire–holding a shield with the VPR symbol emblazoned on it. The painting combined the flourishes of the contemporary Vongolan style with the sharp figures seen in Late Imperial Dachori art. A perfect symbol for the VPR, Kozín thought to himself.

And there he sat, between the two men that had consumed the past decade of his life.

It started nearly ten years ago, during the planning stages of the Vongolan Revolution. Joshua, a naive self-made man, joined in hopes that the movement would reform the planet’s decadent kingdom. But after the coup, he discovered the true nature of Uteriach’s movement, so, he secretly started supporting Kane’s attempted Kingdom-in-Exile. When the VPR discovered his betrayal, he escaped Armechius with a group of dissidents and founded the Vongolan Rebel’s Front (VRF) alongside Kane and other counterrevolutionaries.

The ensuing war cemented Joshua’s transformation from a politically active tycoon into a full-fledged warlord. The VRF later received support from Malchior IV and the Diamond Dogs. When Uteriach disappeared, he hoped that the VRF would triumph over Figlio’s regime, but the bitter and brutal fighting extended for five more years. Meanwhile, Kane’s VRR militia slowly switched from an allied faction to a potential rival. Not even the Vrai, in their attempts to support the VRF instead of the VRR, could stop Kane from becoming a thorn in Joshua’s side. Then the Shattering came and Uteriach returned. Multiple desperate allies in the VRF’s coalition switched sides, joining either Joshua’s rival or his sworn enemy to survive the disaster’s after-effects.

In short, Joshua had spent the last ten years as friend and enemy to both of these men in a war for his home world’s destiny. And now, here they all were. The two wolves he spent years raising prepared to discuss how to tear his body apart.

“They aren’t poisoned,” Uteriach assured, disrupting Joshua’s train of thought. “I’m not interested in killing either of you like that.”

Uteriach leaned back. His icy eyes bore into Kane’s visage.

“Your terms, then,” he demanded cordially. “And explain that pendant that scared my K’thaan men.”

—

<Pirate Lord’s Quarters, The Missing M, Deep Space, Present Day>

Akzer held his tongue. Blackout’s comment about his kind dripped with condescension. Normally, Akzer would have snapped, but he knew better than to pick a fight with a Void.

He tapped his chin, contemplating his course of action.

“Wait,” he finally said. “If they kill Fourteen, it will be too obvious. The ES coincidentally kills two of my main rivals in the same year. They already suspect I had something to do with Keichi’s death, this will only confirm their suspicions. Sure, some will respect me going after the Lord of the Seven Metal Seas…but the others? They’ll use me desecrating a Mediation to justify a war. We wouldn’t survive an all-out war…not after the Shattering.”

Akzer shook his head and paced around the watery void. He glanced at the image of EB on Vesa Qatoria as an idea dawned on him.

“What if we created an enemy?” he asked Blackout. “One that humiliates Fourteen…but doesn’t kill him. One that only I can destroy?”

—

<PM Gunship, Yari III>

Rain shot a knowing smirk in Aster’s direction. He had to play the part, after all. And it had the bonus of getting under her skin. A part of him wondered about the sudden storm he noticed from the transmission.

He gritted his teeth slightly upon mention of the Trilateral. Playing the part of a Malchiorian diplomat meant you actually had to weigh in on complex political matters in a convincing way, even if your area of expertise is supposed to be agriculture. President Klak Vell, like Howard and Yuy before him, opposed Trilateralism–even after the war (although, after Allman fell, Malchior threatened to support a breakup during Concordat negotiations). Some in the Malchiorian government agreed because a unified Tanari was a strong Tanari. Others, who were more cynical, said that a multiplantetary federation like the Malchioran Protectorate really should not encourage a Tanari breakup–even though Malchior was much more federal and centralized with varying degrees of autonomy. But despite Vell’s disappearance, Acting President Merlyn Weir had not defined his stance just yet. Meanwhile, Rain figured that Gaius and Lazran were so tied together that they’d strongly pressure most FSA delegates to be against the mere mention of a “Trilateral”. As such, Rain–or rather, “Van”–had to approach the situation carefully.

“Perhaps we’re all thinking too long-term,” Van added. “I’m not sure Yari and the rest of the Trilateral have enough soldiers to form a strong enough strike team to push back all the cartels. You could get reinforcements from Malchior. You have my word and the ambassador’s word: that option is always available. The OPC might be willing to assist as well. You could also ask the FSA for troops, but the fact that Lazran Dahl is part of the Secretariat means that there’s a risk that Tanar might meddle in your affairs. And if Tanar or the FSA meddle loudly enough, it will get Plus Ultra’s attention in turn. However, there is another option….”

Van’s hologram leaned forward.

“I can’t claim to know much about Sukhonia’s cartels. But the Vesa Qatorian underworld’s alliances and armistices all have one thing in common: they’re like fragile porcelain. All you need is an inciting incident to turn them against each other. Then they’ll be too busy fighting amongst themselves while you strike here. When the dust settles, Sukhonia will find that you’ve taken care of the Vesa Qatorian problem. And they’ll realize that if Yari could take down that giant, then they could take down anyone.”

The struggling ship flew over a small Yarish town. Raindrops fell on a shack clothed in graffiti art. A young man nervously eyed his favorite painting: an icon of Uteriach di Armechio, Figlio di Armechio, and Cassandra Cromwell.

—

<Malcovus’ Office, Malcovus’ Seasonal Mansion, Malchior IV>

Gaius smiled.

“You’re referring to a demonstration of Project Blackstar,” he replied proudly. “We only have a handful of prototypes, but one of them could join a larger fleet.”

He leaned back and pondered the matter before nodding.

“Perhaps my concerns were misplaced,” he mused. “Perhaps the truth the galaxy needs to rally around will arise out of a show of the FSA’s military strength post-Shattering. Something more potent than our efforts to keep the Ne Plus Ultra at bay. It will be done. I will speak to the Supreme Commander myself.”

—

<Progenitors Island, Watkins City, Malchior IV>

At the center of Watkins City, the capital city of Malchior IV & the Malchiorian Protectorate at large, there was a massive lake with an island at its center. The island, originally the landing site of the human colonists centuries ago, was now a memorial to the Progenitors: the founding fathers and mothers of Malchior. Six statues of Progenitors towered over the memorial park, each of a major figure in the planet’s early colonial history (most of whom became leaders and presidents of the new government). Each statue’s hand held a different object, representing a different Malchiorian virtue. At the center was the statue of Jessica Watkins, the commander of the colonial ship and first President of Malchior IV. Epitaphs surrounded the figures’ feet, the names of all the other first colonists emblazoned upon them.

Symbolically, the other side of the lake had a memorial to Diana Malchior, the world’s namesake, who discovered the system eons ago. The memorial included a small statue of Diana that pointed directly to the island.

Ever since he was a child, Nadle loved coming to Progenitors Island. Though the Akutams were not among the first families, and initially faced discrimination when they arrived to this system, Nadle’s father always swelled with patriotic pride whenever he visited. Such a sentiment passed down to his son all too easily. It’s why he put his budding archaeology career on hold and got into the intelligence service decades ago.

Nadle could remember one thing his father told him right before he shipped off to the academy.

“The universe loves to talk about how much it loves Malchiorians,” his father warned. “But what they really love is dead Malchiorians, and they’re pleased to make more of them. Don’t ever give them that pleasure, Nadle.”

That evening, he pondered on those words while waiting for the person he was set to rendezvous with.

—

<Grito de Estrella, New Rockbay>

The vision dissolved as Lalli returned to reality. He felt dizzy and blinked several times before readjusting himself to the present.

“You’re telling me it was the New Order?” Lalli gritted his teeth. “The friggin’ Taks?!”

John Shepard nodded his head to the side.

“I said he might have been right,” Shepard insisted. “It’s not an absolute certainty. Besides, declaring a one-man war on the New Order is unwise. And even if you do find and kill whoever gave the order, it will not necessarily bring you peace, Lalli Cain.”

“I accepted long ago that I’m never meant to live in peace, Shepard,” Lalli replied morosely. “But I may as well dedicate whatever time I have left to bringing down the people who deserve it. If it was the Taks who caused the Shattering, then I need to find whoever gave the order. Are there any assets of theirs on this planet?”

“Does Alphergium gum leave an aftertaste?” Shepard smirked slightly.

Lalli drank whatever was left of his beer and stood up.

“Then I’ll have to find them,” he declared. “I can’t thank you enough….”

“We’re square, Lalli,” Shepard sighed. “Just don’t do anything stupid. Vaya con dios.”

Lalli–though not religious–briefly got the urge to ask Shepard if he meant Dios or if he really meant Blackout. Considering Shepard’s current affiliations though, he decided it would have been rude.

“You too, Sar,” he smiled and walked away.

Moments later, Lalli came across an advertisement for a Tournament run by one Dr. Cesare Kaligari, CEO of Reviv. The prize: bringing back a loved one from the dead (or so they claimed).

-

<Reviv Luxury Suites, New Rockbay, Some Time Later>

Caiaphus–in his Dr. Cesare Kaligari disguise–smiled as he tracked all the movements on the holo-board. Workers buzzed all around him analyzing statistics and determining possible events for the Tournament.

Down the hall was the Luxury Suite, where Kaligari’s special guests such as Vice Generalissimo Figlio di Armechio mingled and watched the tournament on large screens. Cheers, jeers, and shouts of bets filled the air.

Lalli Cain passed by the Luxury Suite, happening to meet Figlio’s eye as the Dachori downed the Vesa Qatorian equivalent of a sidecar cocktail.

“What the fu-” Figlio muttered then stood up and followed Cain.

“Nice to see you too, Figlio,” Lalli muttered.

“It’s Vice Generalissimo,” Figlio groaned. “And you need to leave. Every time you show up, I’m bound to get shot at.”

“That was one time, and you weren’t even supposed to be there,” Lalli dismissed.

Lalli burst into the Tournament’s headquarters. Caiaphus shot up and several guards approached the human, but they froze once they saw Figlio behind him.

“Yes?” Caiaphus snapped. “Is this your guest, Generalissimo?”

“No,” Figlio sighed. “But I know him too.”

“My name’s Cain,” Lalli announced. “Lalli Cain.”

Caiaphus seemed to ponder this information for a moment. His mood suddenly darkened.

“Leave us,” he ordered. Everyone in the room who wasn’t Figlio, Lalli, or Caiaphus immediately left. In passing, Lalli could have sworn he saw a man who looked strikingly similar to Eli Vulcan.

Caiaphus turned back to Lalli and stood up. As he walked towards the human mercenary, he suddenly began to shapeshift into a monstrous form. By the time Caiaphus arrived in front of Lalli, he towered over him as “El Adversario”, his other adopted moniker.

El Adversario snapped his fingers. Suddenly, Lalli felt an invisible force hold him in place. Four glowing dark needles materialized in front of him and inched close to his face.

“You helped Sar Gaxon attack my train,” Caiaphus growled. “Tell me why I shouldn’t gut you in front of the Rider.”

Figlio smirked.

“It was j-just a job,” Lalli stained. “Please…I’m not here to kill you. I just want….”

Lalli grunted in pain as one of the needles slothfully sliced into his skin.

“Please!” he begged. “The Tournament! I’ll do anything, I just need you to let me in!”

“The Tournament just began and its roster is full, Mr. Cain,” Caiaphus scoffed.

“I’ll do anything, just please….” Lalli pleaded. “I don’t care if you kill me, but please….”

Caiaphus froze. He saw the desperation on Lalli’s face. Some of it came from the energies piercing his face. But the rest of it was born from a different kind of pain.

“Very well,” he replied. Caiaphus waved the needles away and they disappeared. Lalli noticed his wound had disappeared too.

“I will give you a location,” he continued. “You will obtain a camtono there. Bring it to me, and I will allow you entry into the tournament.”

Lalli nodded and staggered out.

“You’re just going to let him go?” Figlio asked.

“I gave him a simple task,” Caiaphus snickered. “That camtono stores wine from a vineyard here I’ve grown fond of.”

Figlio scoffed and chuckled.

“You see, a desperate man with that kind of reputation could do wonders for the tournament,” Caiaphus explained, grinning. “Besides, I have no intention of letting him win.”

–

<Vesa Qatoria, Lazarus Zone, 1h 35 minutes since tournament start>

Lalli leaped out of the dropship onto the starting area. He grabbed whatever weapons were left, surveyed his surroundings, and then darted into the trees.

Suddenly, an announcement rang from the pillars, camera drones, and other devices.

“To all remaining contestants,” Caiaphus–as Kaligari–boomed. “We have a late entry into the tournament. His sole dog tag replaces that of one of the recently deceased. Furthermore, his entry carries with it a bonus challenge. Whoever kills Lalli Cain and survives til the end of the Tournament receives a second revival. If you survive but are not the one who killed Cain, the offer does not apply. Good hunting!”

–

<Reviv Medbay, New Rockbay>

Treveya rubbed her forehead and sighed. The beeps from the droids scanning Klak’s resting body echoed through the room.

“You mean to tell me that even though his brain says he’s injured,” she whispered. “There’s no actual injuries on his body?”

“Precisely, Commander,” the Aloussian medic croaked. “So, either Mr. Vell faced a telepath, or….”

“Or he’s lying,” the Faul’dhim woman concluded. “A lie so good he tricked himself into believing it.”

Treveya waved at a guard.

“What did you find in his cell?” she asked.

“Same as usual,” the guard reported. His uniform had a Reviv patch on his right arm placed sloppily over an Adversario patch, which in turn was right on top of a New Order patch. “Oh, except for this.”

Treveya grabbed the object that the guard gave her and raised an eyebrow.

“What the hell is this?”

[ Tular Va’al Orbit, AR 33, Beyond’s Timeline ]
[ PART ONE ]

“Like a man rowing a boat that floats on the tide,
We enter the future facing the past.
Our eyes see only the landscape of the past;
What tomorrow looks like, nobody knows.”
- Paul Valéry

Seen from the tiny viewport of the re-entry capsule, the sublight freighter Beyond had spent the past four years in cryo-sleep aboard looked positively antiquated. The freighter drifted further and further away, as Beyond’s re-entry capsule decelerated, pulled into the orbit of the planet below. The freighter dwindled to just a glimmering speck out in the darkness of space, and then to nothing at all. Yoon-Ta to Tular Va’al was ordinarily a journey of just a few hours on a standard FTL drive. When the Quantum Emperor took the power of the Shattering for himself, he gained full subconscious awareness of all FTL movement in the galaxy - something the rebel forces had only realized far too late. Wherever their fleets jumped, wherever their convoys fled, they were met at the other end by the fleets of a near-omniscient Emperor who seemingly knew their every move.

And so, this last-ditch, near-suicidal mission to Tular Va’al had required retrofitting an ancient Dachori exploration vessel from before the time of the Rider empire. Beyond half expected the cryo-pods to fail mid-transit, killing him in his sleep. Perhaps that would’ve been an easier way out than what lay ahead.

Just as that last thought hung in his mind for a moment longer than appropriate, Beyond was snapped back to reality by a hand gently gripping his own. He turned his head to the seat next to him - which was nominally the pilot’s seat, though a ballistic re-entry capsule such as this offered very little in the way of actual steering. Vekhta’s attention was still focused on the screens arrayed around her - as she tapped away hurriedly at the tactile keyboards underneath them to make the final atmospheric entry adjustment - but she had, evidently, sensed the worry on her Beyond’s mind.

If she was making an attempt to reassure him, it was a poor attempt, but he appreciated it nonetheless. Beyond had spent more time with Vekhta than he’d ever had the chance to with his own mother, Hayley - Vekhta and Kakamu had raised Beyond from his youth into the disciplined young man he was now. They had always been good to him, but by their own admission, neither of them knew much in the way of raising a child. As such, whilst some childlike part of Beyond had once held out hope for something of a parental relationship with them, the reality of the relationship was one closer to that of a ward and his guardians.

“You ready?”

It was Vekhta who spoke, and a voice sounded back in reply through the capsule’s audio loops.

“Of all the plans you’ve ever come up with, Charlia, this is one of the more insane.”

“You didn’t marry me because of my sanity, Kerasaya.”

Kerasaya. Beyond was conversationally fluent in Tekkui, but Kerasaya was a word with a meaning one couldn’t learn from a translator or language dictionary. It wasn’t ‘wife’, nor ‘husband’; it wasn’t ‘lover’, nor ‘betrothed’. Life on Nil’nara was harsh, and often short, and even before the Arokazek invasion the people of Tekkui had been pragmatic. Love was a thing of poetry and legend, not day-to-day interaction; marriages were formed on a basis of mutual convenience, often arranged to suit the needs of the settlement or community. No-one married their Kerasaya in this life, and it was unrealistic to expect to; they would meet their Kerasaya in the next life to come, after they had discharged their duties in this world and could live with self-interest in the next. Kerasaya. Eclipse. Two objects perfectly overlapping, perfectly aligned, even if just for an instant, becoming something greater than the sum of their parts.

Kakamu made a strange, embarrassed choking sound in response. Even all these years later, being reminded he was Charlia Aban An-Vekhta’s Kerasaya reduced the accomplished warrior to something more akin to a schoolboy with a playground crush.

On the outside of the escape capsule, Kakamu maneuvered around to the center of the heat shield, positioning himself between the capsule and the atmosphere it was about to impact. He planted the base of the guardian fire spear into a small stand they had welded to the base, aligning it perfectly with the direction of the capsule’s travel. The capsule had no engines, and so couldn’t steer closer to their target by itself - so they would improvise. If there was one thing Kakamu was good at, it was producing fire, and lots of it. He paused, feeling the ambient temperature rise as the upper edge of Tular Va’al’s atmosphere began to heat up the ship via friction.

The Arokazek, Arc Keylana, Sefer Yetzirah - all of them had taken so much from Kakamu, and changed him so utterly. His body could operate freely in a vacuum; no realistic amount of heat could damage him. There was no equivalence between the harm they had done to him and his people and the benefits he had received in return, but now, in this moment, those same benefits were allowing him to do his part in ridding the galaxy of the Quantum Dynasty. It left an uneasy feeling in his gut.

“We’re going in.”

Flame rushed past him like a clifftop breeze, before becoming a gale-force wind. Heat, plasma, ablative slag peeling itself away from the capsule’s heat shield and sparking off his biometal body - he bit his tongue, holding fire as he allowed Tular Va’al’s atmosphere to do the bulk of the deceleration, until -

Fire. More of it than Kakamu had ever willed forth in his lifetime. He felt the capsule underneath his feet all but rocket away from him from the sheer deceleration as a plume of flame a quarter mile long lit up the night’s sky. It was working. Working. Kakamu pushed his weight against the shaft of the spear, angling it slightly to one side - leaning into it, guiding the capsule on a slight sideways bank that would bring it down closer to their destination.The capsule beneath him began to shake and rattle as the atmosphere thickened. It broke through the cloud layer like a ball of red-hot iron thrown from above, and as the surface below came into view, Kakamu realized they had overshot their mark - badly.

“Fuck!”

He gripped the spear tighter, as if to squeeze more flame out of it - leaning into it, gritting his teeth. The plume grew in intensity, but their target - the small island of Jeddar in the middle of the Ganx sea - was still rapidly approaching, and the capsule was still travelling far too fast. His panicked focus turned into outright panic, and he felt the plume sputtering, the deceleration force decreasing - the capsule itself threatening to tumble, spin and send him flying away from it via centrifugal force.

And then it did - it spun, flipped, heatshield facing upwards, the guardian fire spear pinging off into the open sky like a predatory bird breaking off for a dive. Kakamu grabbed onto some manner of external handhold - anything he could find - before drawing a clawed hand back and thrusting it into the outer plating of the capsule, holding on for dear life. Fiery wind whipped around him as the capsule continued to tumble and spin out of control, headed straight for the cold Ganx sea. Kakamu steeled himself, willing jets of flame from the base of his feet, somehow repositioning himself between the capsule and the ground below and pushing upwards against it as through were Atlas holding the globe aloft. It wouldn’t be enough. Without the spear - without its flame - Kakamu, Vekhta and Beyond were dead.

At that moment, something inside him that had been buckled, bent, warped and lost ever since the Arokazek first laid hands on him - some all-but-inert shard of his soul - finally snapped. Kakamu had known loss. He had lost Parati, lost his homeworld - seen Tekkui who had escaped biosynthesis at the hands of the Arokazek succumb to a far worse fate at the hands of Kanos Jai science. He had seen his son splinter and fracture and turn against him, warped into a slave with a metal face just as he had been. He had seen his friends turned into nightmare versions of themselves, corrupted fully by the will of the Quantum Emperor, and had been forced to cut them down.

It ended now. Kakamu, son of Kaulan, Toa of Nil’nara, would never lose anything ever again.

The flame erupted bright, blue, a wash of cobalt dying the undersides of the clouds in electric shades. Blue flame flowed from his body, jetting out of the gaps in his armour like plasma escaping a vessel, more intense and powerful than ever before. The capsule decelerated so hard and so fast that Kakamu half worried its occupants would be liquefied, but didn’t allow his focus to shift from slowing the capsule down. He felt its momentum give way, its velocity drift downwards - the flame from his body spreading out like a pair of wings as he pulled it down towards the isle of Jeddar. The ground rose up to meet him, closer, and closer, and closer, and-

—

Vekhta wrenched open the capsule door, climbed out, jumped down onto the golden beach, doubled over, deposited her breakfast on the sand, stood up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then turned to look around. Kakamu was nowhere to be seen. Beyond climbed out next, slightly more composed, adjusting the sword strapped across his back. He wasn’t used to carrying a weapon; that much would soon have to change. Prevaius Dahrk’s empire held no place for pacifists.

“Where is he?” asked the young man, hiding his nervousness so well that Vekhta almost didn’t detect it. She furrowed her brow, surveying the edge of the forest.

If he’s dead, Vekhta thought, I’m going to kill him.

The capsule rumbled, and Vekhta and Beyond instinctively leapt away from it as though it were about to explode. It slowly, awkwardly, lifted upwards, revealing a Tekkui painted pitch black by carbonization, holding it aloft. He rolled it backwards towards the sea, letting it fall back onto the sand behind him. It did so with an exceptionally loud thunk. Kakamu climbed out of the hole from where it had just sat, gasping for air, panting from exertion.

“We made it.” he said, in a way that expressed far less confidence than Vekhta wanted to hear and, realistically, leant closer to a rhetorical question than a statement of fact. She leant down to help him up, wiping the soot from his face, giving him a peck on his still-dangerously-hot-to-the-touch cheek. Beyond’s gaze remained fixed on the forest further inland. He had Prevaius’s memories; he knew the way from here to the old Ministerium Scientificos research facility, and how to navigate through it once inside.

Which meant if the time machine was still there - intact - he knew how to make it work.

"Father." he said, clenching his fist, clearing all from his mind but that essential to the mission. "I am coming... to set you free."