Saber Forum

****My thanks to theDutchman for this prologue that set the course for this story, this prologue with a few continuity edits is his great work*****

Sitting within the thick veined walls of the semi-organic meditation sphere, Darth Impes felt the pulse again, an unseen feather brushing her neck.  

Unlike the first time, she could actually gain purchase upon the elusive thread, the ephemeral almost-feeling beginning to coalesce into something tangible and therefore, locatable.  When the feeling stopped several minutes afterwards, she'd already used several stable points to triangulate the source.

Opening her eyes, fiery yellow irises flared in anticipation from beneath her dreadlocked hair, the promise of something - and somewhere - new energizing her.  

Consulting the holomap projected off a rotten old carpet on the semi-organic floor that formed a continuous membrane with the walls - and indeed the whole of the womb like sphere she was within - her fingers thin as her own light frame danced over the patchwork of minor fiefdoms, kingdoms and marches that made up what had been the galactic north.

There had been no functional Republic for centuries, the Jedi hold outs operating little differently to the Sith Lords and Tyrant Marches in their own micro kingdoms.  

The board was cluttered, war constant, and the spoils stale, any system that could be taken had been over and over again over the last century, there was little to nothing left to plunder, and the moment one tried to build anything the tides of betrayal and civil wars spewed new factions seeking to claim their own dominion.

Delicately she was able to determine roughly where the source was coming from:

A vague region somewhere within the Deep Core beyond even the bickering Baronages of Byss, the Kingdoms around Prakith, or the Ygmir Hegemonies.

She had not thought of that - travel deeper into the core past Teta was risky, but there were great rewards to be had in conquering virgin systems, especially one that already called to her with echoes of power.

Who was hiding there, a Jedi holdout perhaps, yes it had to be, craven creatures.

And, it had to be said there was a growing need to ‘move on’ from the mid rim.

Their forces were not as they had been, UnderKing Tithian had turned against them quicker than they had been able to turn on him following the conquest of Denon.

A third of their Swords and slaves destroyed in the fourth battle above that burning wreck of a world  until they were forced to retreat.

Ignominious perhaps, but she knew when to flee and fight another day for richer pickings, trusting in the Dark side - unlike the rigid light, in the shadows there was always another path.

She would take from the Jedi everything that they'd hidden and worked for in the dark corners of the all too bright core.

Reaching out with her mind she touched her fellow lords thoughts, the brash warrior in the midst of enjoying his latest slaves as stale consolation for the loss of half a million warriors to nuclear fire - he resented her telepathic interruption but accepted it nonetheless.  

"’Lord’ Yn..." She began, the honorific never sincere as her smile deepened with cruelty, "...How would you like to pillage the last vestiges of the Jedi's secret havens?"

Grunting out an exertion and throwing back his darkly handsome head, his short matted black hair greasy from sweat and blood of battles weeks past he replied, speaking to - so far as his pleasure slaves were concerned - the musty recycled air of the Malevolens Mictlanis - the kilometer long E-Temmen-Enki Dreadnought that served as his Throne-ship leading hundreds of Tiamat-Class destroyers along with their horde of trailing Carrion Haulers and Flesh barges.

"So you’ve found somewhere to flee too…." satisfied he threw off the undressed chattel as he would a rotten robe and quickly replaced his codpiece, the only piece of his spiked Anunnaki Shell armour he ever removed nowadays.

Such was the burden of being a Lord - he never dared exposed any more of his flesh to a potential Imhullu blade than necessary.

“...I’ll gather the Blood Thralls, send through the location ‘Darth’ Impes,” amusement and curiosity in his aura, the dismissive tone toward her own honorific not intended to insult, she had learned, it was just his way.

Titles and rank meant nothing in these dark ages, tangible power, be it in magick, machines or manpower did.  Yn relied on her Sorceries and witchcraft, just as she did on his protection and resources, if not respect then they acknowledged the mutual benefit of their alliance.  

Quickly swigging the last of his looted haemowine, spitting congealed lumps onto the floor, Yn donned his helm and headed through the grimy rusted doors to his throne.

He was not one for excessive pride, he knew they were running, but also there was nothing here for them worth fighting for, just a hundred other warlords gnashing over the same picked clean bones.  

Impes nodded and returned to her maps, they needed little discussion, their conversations always quick and to the point.

Returning to her meditations she felt the warmth of the Darkside assuring her she would pinpoint the location the closer they got - these Jedi couldn’t hide much longer; power, of any kind, had a gravity to it - a depth that inevitably drew others to it  

Yet this pit of power…. It felt of Sith alchemy...desperate Jedi no doubt, who else would be so crude in this era as to use such power so blatantly.

Into the ‘night’ and artificial day within the confines of a vast spacefaring vessel she continued to plan as the Armada slowly repositioned in the nameless system they had rendezvoused at following the retreat from Denon.

Though bloodied Yn’s allied Armada was still enormous, thousands of ships strong, over a million slave soldiers, hundreds of battle hardened psychopathic Sith Swords.  

They would have to fight, scheme, ally and betray their way through Teta, Prakith, Byss and likely more minor fiefs and marches along the way…

But they would reach this Haven, plunder its riches and make it their new seat.

 
"...I'm sorry doctor, germination has failed.  The zygotes have been rendered 'Inert.'  Again." Doctor Jival Pon Rrist muttered the last audibly under her breath, frustration painted across her face almost turning the beautiful alabaster skin a shade darker.  Almost.

"Damn." Doctor Dastur Len Kkost sighed.  Yet another fallow Gene Generation yield.  Yes, yes, the Technocracy had been remarkably successful thus far--Project Aethenaea boasted a stable Generation 30 host! - yet despite the precision of their nucleotide sequence - with every subsequent Generation viable embryos were fewer and that the rate of failure rose exponentially.

The question was: why?

Unnecessarily, Dastur rubbed at his eyes, a half-remembered affectation from a genetic memory when Aethan eyesight was as deficient as any baseline human's.  Still, it seemed to help him focus.  Inhaling, he squared his shoulders.

 "Let me see the last three Recombinant Tests."  Approaching the holo-image, Dastur began to peruse the data, double- and triple-checking the math mentally to the 10th decimal.

Everything looked proper...What was he missing?

"Too bad Soron isn't here." Jival's slightly amused voice came from behind his ear. 

He hadn't heard her move; of course she was a Gene Generation above him but he was usually more observant.  He should've been aware of her proximity or at the very least the subtle yet heady mixture of pheromones...

He shook his head slightly; he had to admit that his own frustration was beginning to truly adversely affect him.

He needed results, and quickly. 

He had promised much to be appointed Director of Genehancement, the most prestigious and critical role in the whole Program of Genesis Deus - the acceleration of evolution to its inevitable conclusions of a supreme race through genetic, Aetheric and other necessary enhancements. 

A Program that had for 1,019 Orbitals of Aetha’s sun (some 2,500 years in the imprecise ‘galactic standard’ measures used by Outsiders) continued in splendid isolation and virtuous progress, reaching a pinnacle of 30 Generations enhanced from their base genetic ancestors, each generation a magnitude above the last such that they were, since Generation 10, a unique race fashioned by design not hopeless chance of intercourse and gamete mingling…

And Yet…

In recent years natural fertility, so essential to provide the scientists and support staff to work toward the goal of Genesis Deus, given the impractically large resources needed for vat breeding at scale, had drastically declined.

At first stillbirths and miscarriages increased exponentially, over 80 in every 100, then embryos failed to implant at a rate of 75 per 100, now even zygotes failed to form! 

Of a population of over 300,000, fewer than 10 children had been born for each of the last 30 orbitals, stalling progress.

Turning from the holo-image, he smiled wanly.  "True...but I can only take so much of the hologram's condescending faux obsequiousness."  Just the thought of the look of self-satisfied serenity on Soron Varas’s -the Founder of the Program’s - face...

"I can't imagine how the man himself would be when he's 'just trying to help.'"  That produced a smile from Jival, a not-unpleasant sight.

"You know," She said offhandedly, "Jurahl was mentioning the other day that he'd had some successes with the latest tetraploids."  She offered this as if it were the most mundane thing in the world.  He saw her looking at him from the corner of her aqua eyes.

He blinked.  …That was completely deliberate... He knew.  After a moment, he gave a half-smile.  "Well don't be coy; what kind of results?  Or did Doctor Calrahn say?"  Of course he had, Dastur knew, Jurahl was almost as bad as Soron.  Almost.  He held the door open for Jival, as was proper.

Dr. Jurahl Fid Calrahn was one of the youngest geneticists working on Project Aephrodaea, whose methods were rumored to be…unorthodox, but whom Kkost had not yet had the time to interrogate in much depth.   

Even more astonishing were whispers when Kkost had started that Jurahl was now working with embryos equivalent to Generation 31, viable biomass purported to be Generation 32.  Of course no one believed it.

Dastur certainly did not…But given his own failure it was perhaps time to draw on his staff's talents more broadly, there might be some underlying truth behind the exaggeration after all.

Jival stared straight ahead but he could feel her eyes upon him.  "The last four zygotes have been completely stable, two of which look even more promising."  He could hear the unfeigned excitement in her tone.  "Maybe even to maturation."

It was too much.  Dastur stopped cold, mouth agape...Well, as much as could be said for an Aethan.  "...You're joking." He said without conviction.

Jival's face suddenly became intense.  "Would you like to see?" She asked just above a whisper, biting her lip for good measure. 

Whether it was Jival's enticements or his own curiosity, Dastur found himself following his fellow geneticist through the white halls beneath the calming blue interior lights. 

With each step, his heart’s twelve chambers slightly flexed out of sequence in a legacy response bred out of Jival’s generation, a feeling approximating ‘excitement’.

Again, for an Aethan.

Jival led him through the corridors and down several bounce tubes, ever deeper into the Genos-Ziva- the headquarters of the Directorate of Genehancement, home to the greatest minds and best resources the supreme race had. 

Consulting his eidetic memory of the vast facility’s above and below-ground schematics, he frowned. 

"I've never been down here.  Jival, where are you taking me?" He asked, more confused than concerned. 

As Director of Genehanement, and its three sub programs Aethanaea, Aertemisaea and Aephrodaea, Dastur had unfettered access to the entire facility...Yet he never even knew that this section had been designated for Project Research.

In fact, last he was aware, this entire subbasement had been cannibalized in the wake of Project Aethenaea. 

Clearly he was wrong.

"To Jurahl's lab." Her eyes flashed although he didn't think that she'd meant for him to see...but he was too intrigued by now.  After even more twists and turns, Dastur found himself standing in front of an unremarkable wall, the dead end an almost innocuous-seeming mistake.

Smoothly stepping around her colleague, Jival stood in front while passing her hand over a patch of wall indistinguishable from the rest.  A seam silently appeared from the right corner join, widening just enough to allow passage if they turned sideways. 

Dastur felt Jival grab his hand, leading him in the complete darkness, although his own proximity senses were acute enough so as not to run into any of the walls.  Yet her touch felt electric, typical of female tactile pheromones. 

Had she done that deliberately?

Soon, his eyes noticed a gradation in the darkness, the subtle tell-tale sign that there was light being reflected from an unseen source.

Interestingly, he suddenly stepped into full illumination.  Blinking three times so as to give his corneas time to perfectly adjust, he stopped motionless at the sights before him.

The "lab" was enormous with multiple kolta baths holding biomass within the transparisteel pods, thick conduits connecting each to a larger maze of pipes wrapped around each other along the ceiling.  Holographic displays were projected above several stations, bio-readouts as well as formulae continued to scroll across the holoscreens as technicians worked diligently in concert with one another. 

Now that he was within the room, he could feel the various conversations in GroupMind as information was shared, collated, processed, discarded, reworked, and entered.

But that wasn't what gave Dastur pause.

In a central pod, this one much, much larger than all the others combined, was a naked figure.  Unsurprisingly, the body was flawless: limbs proportional, skin immaculate, face smooth, beautiful and perfectly symmetrical. 

The figure within would be considered gorgeous by Aethan standards, and that was saying something, although Dastur thought that the figure wasn't quite...right (the thought was there before he realized that he'd thought it, the exactness of such...elusive).

"What...what is this?" The awe in his voice was unfeigned.  Truly the figure within the pod was the most incredible specimen that he'd ever seen.

 
...But then why did he feel even more uncertain about it?

"Welcome, Director." A voice reminding Dastur very much of Soron Varas's came from across the room, one man approaching them as the remaining technicians continued their data entry.  Standing just to the side of him, the man smiled first to Jival before placing a welcoming hand upon Dastur's shoulder. 

"I'm glad that the Technocracy has finally seen fit to acknowledge my research..." His voice trailed off as he saw the confusion in Dastur's face.

"I brought him, Jurahl." Jival explained.  In a quieter voice she added, "His last cohort was 'Unviable.'"  Her sympathetic tone was accompanied by a surge in pheromones.  Dastur noticed that Jurahl smiled knowingly, his face radiating camaraderie.

"Ah, doctor--Dastur if I may--I feel you." He placed a familiar arm around his shoulder, a not-uncomfortable gesture.  Jival's smile deepened.  "I think that all true geniuses feel as we: constrained."

"I...well, doctor..." Dastur felt the effects of pheromones coursing through him, but the frustration that he'd felt suddenly flared, amplified as well.  He agreed with what Jurahl said, wanted to believe in his perspective.

Jurahl continued.  "It is precisely what Soron had to endure all those millennia ago, the traitorous Mira trying to kill those of us loyal to Genesis Deus so as to derail our apotheosis." 

He led Dastur deeper into the room, closer to the beautiful figure afloat within the kolta solution.

"That is why I’ve begun my own testing.  Alas the Technocracy has been for too long sleep walking into its own dogma’s, any intelligent observer has seen the slow slide toward matriarchalism, the curious veneration of Her but the most blatant expression of the change…but in breaking these restrictions…"

Dastur only half heard the words, his eyes now staring at the gorgeous figure in the pod now right in front of him, his mind somewhat sluggish.  He...he had to think...why was it so difficult?  He knew that the pheromones from Jival were part of his "inebriation" but her's were but a trickle compared to the flood that he felt...what was it...?

"...I've been successful." Jurahl's voice suddenly cut through the fog. 

Blinking, Dastur's mind tried to clear itself, his eyes returning time and again to the specimen, a fully grown adult of exceptional beauty, every single part flawless, pristine, and perfect, eyes, ears, nose, full lips set upon an impeccable face, smooth chest, nipples neither too small nor large, stomach flat and muscled, shapely hips, buttocks, and legs immaculate, gena--

Dastur inhaled sharply.  "By the Founder..." He said, uncharacteristically reverting to old superstitions.

"For too long the Technocracy has focused upon but part of what makes us great, overly conservative in its concerns for maintaining legacy societal ordering.  Think about THEM..." Jurahl emphasized.

 "She is Generation 30, He as well, if a degree below.  They represent the pinnacle of Technocracy Genengineering..." He chuckled at that before continuing, "...Yet they are STILL only using HALF that which is available. She the Queen and He the canus sniffing obediently at her heels"  He pointed to the figure suspended within the pod. 

"THIS...is what I've done: taken 'Project Aephrodaea' in a new direction, one aligned with Soron's tenets."  Dastur could feel Jival beside him, her face radiant as she looked from him to Jurahl to the specimen and back again.

Jurahl grabbed both of his shoulders, the heady feeling he felt becoming almost intoxicating as Dastur heard the other man grow triumphant. 

"This is the next step for Genesis Deus, what Soron would've done had he been where we are now!  He would not surrender to the doctrine of the blind, subscribing to so-called mores that are by their very exclusion limiting!"  He stared up at the figure, his face warring between awe and pride.  "Project Aephrodaea was 'Stage 1'...this, this is 'Stage 2:' Phase Atlantiades!"

Dastur could feel the entire room pulse with Jurahl's triumph...even as he stared incredulously at the figure...or rather their perfectly formed genitalia.

Both female and male.

"This is why your latest sample batch failed: the Technocracy would have us force the procedure...whereas Phase Atlantiades produces viable specimens organically." He let that sink in.

Dastur was amazed.  "...And you were able to produce this specimen from...what precisely?"

Jurahl smiled conspiratorially.  "I had to get...creative." He ticked off his fingers as he spoke.  "Many samples of Aethena and Valence still exist…and as you know, Jival can be…persuasive.”

Jurahl and Jival shared a conspiratorial glance spiking Dasturs misgivings

“But that is of no consequence, the parents become irrelevant once the progeny exceeds them,” Jurahl dismissed

Dastur pointed at the specimen.  "So I see.  And this was the result of the pairing?  But...what 'organic' component are you referring to?"

Jurahl's smile faltered.  "Ah...no.  No, this is Generation 32." He exhaled.  "...for all our science, nature still has its…hiccups."

Dastur's eyes narrowed.  "Doctor...what then is Generation 31?" His mind seemed to cut through the haze; oh, it was still there but it seemed to no longer affect him as it had been.  He glanced at Jival; she had a slight frown upon her face.

"That..." Jurahl said after exhaling, "...is why Soron's Vision is necessary."  He seemed to weigh Dastur with his eyes. 

Whatever he saw, he nodded, pressing several buttons upon his wrist-link.  Soundlessly, the pod with the perfect specimen withdrew into the ceiling, exposing a darkened cavity.  It looked like almost all of the pipes fed into the darkness.

Stepping forward, the three doctors entered the shadowed area.  With another touch of his wrist-link, Jurahl slowly increased the illumination.  Dastur was grateful for the slowed lighting; it allowed him to grow accustomed to the horrible sight in front of him.

Floating in a pod almost exactly the same as the one that the perfect specimen was in, the kolto solution held a humanoid form...but that was as close an identifier as Dastur could recognize. 

The thing within was a malformed, twisted, and grotesque amalgam of biological parts that seemed to have been mashed together absent any kind of plan: an oversize, misshaped head sat on one shoulder without a neck, the other shoulder occupying the place where its chest should be, the torso a bloated cylinder of flesh that had three nipples arranged in no particular order. 

While it had two arms, only one could be identified as a true limb, the other a stunted, deformed appendage sticking out of the torso at an impossible angle.  As for the legs...well they were even worse, both of them horribly twisted and useless, attached to a spine that was outside the flesh, its warped curvature an impossibly sinuous zigzagged line of fused- and half-formed vertebrae.  Yet...

...Yet it also had a pair of genitalia, one perfectly formed female and one perfectly formed male genitalia.

"And a viable womb and ovaries ." Jurahl touches Dastur's thoughts, the Director too distracted to resist the nascent telepathy, the gift of distant Anzat ancestors. 

"With but a simple procedure, I was able to fertilize a natural egg, the embryo growing to semi-maturation within the womb before being transferred and undergoing growth acceleration in the pod you saw."

"How were you able to sustain both female and male gametes all the way to maturation?" Dastur said, indicating the specimen's dual genitalia.

Jurahl nodded.  "Through the studies and work of an ancient Sith alchemist, Darth Caldoth.  He worked primarily with beasts but his theories in gene-evolution are perfectly germane for the Technocracy.  And that, doctor, was the missing component." He said, gesturing to the thing in the pod. 

"That is the key--and the legacy--of Phase Atlantiades: the subsequent Generations will all be hermaphrodites.  It solves many of the degradation problems and dramatically increases population growth potential by removing the distinction between ‘inseminators’ and ‘gestators’."  Jurahl shrugged.  "Of course, there are still problems, progress is never linear - further units grown to maturation in natural wombs will increase the sample size to narrow on those errors."

Dastur could finally think clearly, recognizing the source of the pheromones that he'd felt since entering the room: they were coming from the thing in the tank. 

"But this is Sith Alchemy…unproven Sith Alchemy.” He knew this for a fact, the Technocracy had only 8 largely complete Sith Alchemical texts of note acquired before they isolated themselves from the Galaxy. All were subject to significant study and assessment, five, with guard rails, incorporated into the Genesis Deus Program operational schema’s. The Caldoth Codices were not among those five. 

“Also, what about the increased pheromones?" He indicated towards the pod.

Jurahl nodded.  "By product of possessing lymphatic systems of both female and male physiology." 

Dastur's eyes never left the thing in the pod. 

He was not religious nor spiritual, indeed the Founders earliest precepts clearly refuted the foolishness of such beliefs, he was a man devoted to science - even the Aether was but a form of energy, like radiation, that could be stratified, measured and controlled - but what he saw now seemed somehow blasphemous.

Against the Matrilinealism of Aethan Cultural practice he fully endorsed, a twisted step away from the Personifications of the goal of Genesis Deus - Aethenaea, Aertemisaea and Aephrodaea - for which the projects under his ambit were named, against the precepts of Aesthetic Integrity and Enhancement, the perversion of Form and Function.

Slowly shaking his head, he looked from Jurahl to Jival.  "...No.  No, this is not Soron's Vision.  His Plan was explicit, the reason that each project was named after one of the three Personifications," 

He pointed, disgusted, at the thing in the pod.  "That...is not worthy of Aethas nor the Technocracy.  It should, like every other malformation, have been given over to the protein recycler,"  He could feel the doubling of pheromones but instead of the intended effect, it was oppressive, vile. 

"It is an affront to everything the Technocracy represents, a corruption tainting the Science and Purity that Soron left for us exemplified in Genesis Deus.  And to use Sith means untested….The Sith destroy; it is as inherent in them as it is their Code.  Always--always!--one must deal with the unexpected whenever the Sith are involved. The Caldoth Codicies are excluded from methodological schema’s for good reason…the risk of…"

Jurahl's face spoke of his disappointment as he cut Dastur off, the Director incautious in his thoughts revealing his rigid irrational adherence to the way Aethan society was not how it must be to further the Program.   

"I'm sorry to hear you say that.  I had hoped that you, as Director, and given your own failures, would see that this is the way."

Faster than he could react, Dastur felt an injection tube clamp onto the back of his neck, the dense durasteel needle able to penetrate the resilient hyper-keratin skin to administer the somnolent agent directly into his sciatic nerve. 

Keyed specifically to Aethan physiology, the concoction worked almost instantly.  Dastur collapsed upon the floor insensate, Jival standing above him with the hypodermic gun in her hand.

Jurahl's face was completely blank as he looked at Jival.  "...This is why Phase Atlantiades must continue to operate in secret. Too many have veered from the Founders true path,”
Deliberating adopting a facial expression of sadness he quoted from the Articles of Confluency

“any means may be used to further Genesis Deus, there must be no restriction of method…” 

He stared hard at Jival. 

"Make it look like an accident."  Turning on his heel, he walked over to the other doctors and techs instructing them on the nuances of the Alchemical procedures necessary to increase viability, leaving Jival to her own thoughts.

She had been so confident that Dastur would see the wisdom of Jurahl's work...

Reaching down, she picked up Dastur's sleeping body, heading towards one of the secret exits allowing for swift egress. 

That was one of the curious features of the Technocracies' barely restrained pursuit of scientific advancement -  accidents from self or misguided experimentation were a frequent and accepted part of life on Aethas.

Dastur would not be missed.

Dramatis Personae

“Failure”

The melodic feminine artificial voice gave the impression it delighted in the rare occasions it could utter the word so few Aethans ever heard.

The first word the listener had ever learned - for it was how everyone defined her.

Skin began to flake away in mists of black-red dust as the energy continued to beam off her fingers…too many fingers. 

Six splayed digits sent beams of aether energy into whichever of the 36 targets was lit at the moment. 

Carried on the arms of whirling machines, at any one time 6 were her targets, the rest distractions, their activation switching constantly as they moved.

She kept pace, concentration creasing her birthmark blotched face as one eye of aqua and another of milky blue that saw in unintended spectrums both independently tracked different targets.

Her ungainly form stumbled in a lattice of precision beams that measured to the micron the position of each limb, flopping from platform to platform that rose, fell and changed color from red to blue, indicating where she was allowed to stand.

1, 18, 23, 4, 7 and 9 were the current targets, then 24 swept past 7, 9 dipped below 3 and they swapped.  Her energy streams redirected mid motion to new targets…but as 10 swept over the new target 11…

“Failure” the voice repeated and the training system began shutting down, as if more tired of her constant defeats than she was.

Not even a pause and the results streamed along the tracking board beside her in off-green on a dark background.

23 minutes 18 seconds this time, average output of 5000 Aeths per second per target, total energy use of just under 7 million Aeths, and 84% accuracy on her foot work.

It left her depleted, it was well above what any other Aethan could accomplish - but those results for ‘average’ gene generations 25 through 28 were never on the comparison board, only the results of two beings that exceeded her were.

HE was above her, 30 minutes 19 seconds at 6000 Aeths per second, 10.9 million, and SHE was above that…35 minutes at 6100 aeths per second - nearly 13 million….

Her brother, her sister - her betters.

Eileithyia slumped away from the platforms, her skin burnt from over exertion, left to flake off behind her - each fleck quickly vacuumed by the floating ovoid cleaning droids.

She never knew how superior she might be to others, only that she was inferior to them and most especially Her.

A breath amplified by the echoes of the spacious training room she threw off her scorched tunic revealing the fullness of her imperfection to the mirrored wall before her.


Polydactyly, Heterochromia, pallid splotched skin, uneven spinal disks giving her an avoidable stoop, thin hair and uneven limb lengths, additional spinal discs that gave her an ungainly hunch and crooked gait, were the visible manifestations of her imperfection.

Within were scars from where her ovaries had to be removed after their rabid hormonal output threatened her life at puberty, blood infused with artificial supplements injected every day to try and replace them, a dual Aethenaea Cortex that created a bulb in her skull barely hidden by her scraggly hair, two lungs pressed to the edges of her fused ribs by the oversized middle lung, a shortened intestinal tract and elongated caecum imbalancing nutrient absorption. 

For any one of these faults a child of Aethas would be unceremoniously thrown into the metal teeth of Protein recycler and pulped into ‘useful’ strains of proteins and lipids to feed vat grown embryos.

She stared at her own awful reflection in the glazed walls of the Gymnasia contemplating the dubious rationale of her being spared.

For Eileithyia was the third, the last, the failed hope of Project Aethenaea.

As a zygote three thousand Aethans had been ‘sacrificed’ to her in a mechanism of Aether Transference - drastically enhancing her Aether potential - yet for each life given she received a marginal increase in her native born power, multiplied by 3000 it became material. 


“And you do them no honor with your failure,” the gruff callous voice of Mentor came from the side as she picked up her robe, unembarrassed to be undressed in front of him.

Mentor was old, the oldest possibly Aethan alive, earlier than gene generation 20 she suspected. His skin a pallid gray, nose flattening on a drawn wrinkled face beneath liver spotted scalp that seemed set against time itself - knowing it would lose but defying it regardless.

A bulbous protrusion was slowly forming on the back of his head - Anzat and Lek’un physical characteristics asserting themselves as he aged excessively beyond his ‘intendent life cycle’.

Possibly the only living Aethan with a claim to outdo her in ugliness, at least he had the excuse of being centuries old.

“You can do better,” his voice grated “Why don’t you,”

He clutched a cane she had felt the brunt of too often as a child.

Why should I? she might ask

She could do another 30 seconds, a minute perhaps, it was still not enough, anything less than Aethena never could be.

And as her reflection showed, Aethena was something She never could be.

Eileithyia grasped a water bladder and drank deeply of glacial melt rich in heavy minerals from the towering mountains that surrounded the capital Alixandraea, her eyes flicked to the board once more…13 Million...and she heard his gruff cough.

“I tell you every day not to look, you never listen,”

“And the Technocracy tells me every moment not to look away,” she replied with a deliberate bitterness in her scratchy forever hoarse voice. 

Aethena, the first product of the Project, the glorious sun, vindication of the blood and lives spilt over 30 generations, the second Valence the shadowed brooding Moon, always lit only by Aethena’s glory in reflection.

Everyone had expected the Third to be an easy accomplishment, two successes, the process refined and enhanced, only the most minor tweaks to the nucleotide sequences that had forged Aethena.

The name was chosen ‘Eileithyia’ - an  old Miraluka word for a minor deity, a protector of childbirth, the label on a dozen gestation tubes.

Her role in the Genesis Deus program was to bear the first natural born Generation 30, to be the living solution to the fertility crisis that plagued the Supreme Race, the mother that Aethena, capricious of temperament, could never be.

Instead - birthed from a dying surrogate upon a Noctilith Aetheric Transfusion Platform surrounded by corpses, willing and unwilling, who had given their Aether connection to infuse her with demi-god like power - was the cripple…the failure.

“So you believe,” he grunted

“So the evidence proves” she replied, shuffling on her Chiton and pointing to the fading score board as the lights dimmed.

Her life had been a series of failed tests - when not undergoing surgeries or treatments - to try and find some value in her, doctors without count had injected, extracted, measured and scanned her, always the same look of barely concealed disgust.

Her unnaturally strong duplicate Aethenaea Cortices could hear their thoughts, always the astonishment such an abomination could be classed as a relation to the Divine Aethena, and Pity.

So much Pity.  The poor creature. Mercy to have been aborted. I'd kill myself if I looked like that...I'd cycle the infant myself...should never have been allowed to live...By the Founder she can talk!….

Balanced always against the marvel, the astonishment every Aethan felt at the perfection of Aethena Glorious…beauty personified…Truly worthy of Soron Varas Vision…Gensis Deus has never been closer

Of course…such thoughts were quickly deleted by Mentor. 

No one could know of the failure that she embodied, and so every Program Member that interacted with her, save the few highest ranking, had their memory of the exchange wiped by Mentor.

Perhaps that was how the wily old Mentor had escaped the population cleansing clutches of the Department of Apportionments Actuaries so long….he had found a way to make even them forget his existence a moment after he left their sight.

Yet Mentor compared Eileithyia only to what He believed she could be.

He showed her neither pity nor mercy. 

Perhaps she felt affection - so far as any Aethan could any more so far had they removed the redundant neuro-chemical imbalances termed ‘emotions’ - toward him for that.

Yet for whatever Mentor said, she was part of the Technocracy, and failure, however slight, was not tolerated.

Throwing her hood up she looked one last time at the board - it had switched off but her hyperactive eidetic memory easily recreated the image of the failed score in her mind before she headed to the exit.

“I’m going the long way,” she muttered knowing the old corpse would find his own way back to their bunker like home hidden from the alpine apartments where the Technocracy society of scientists and polymaths made their home among marbled columns of pure white.


“Don’t….”

“...say it,” she hissed through her teeth. 

Every time no matter how many hundreds of times Don’t be seen he would say even as she wrapped the aether about her in her typical Glamor - a generic Generation 28 woman’s face, pretty, but commonplace enough to be forgotten when layered with a misdirection aura.


Indignant, he sat up straight as his aged body would allow as she left.



With a guttural bellow like that of a rabies infected mammal the tall Chalactan praised his Lord for the honour of being the first off the lander and onto the cobbled steps.


He was joined seconds later by dozens more of his Brethren-in-thrall, scraggy, stinking of blood, sweat and waste, flailing without effort with Ugallu Mauls, mass produced blocks of durasteel with spikes on a 20 kilo head and runic enchantments that burned orange when blood touched them

All species were unified in the throng, Ghoul Skins - the flayed and semi cured remains of former victims their only amour, bounded to their bodies by Scourge-Vine - barbed wire marinated in corpse pits for weeks till offal rust and death combined to sharpen each point.

It provided a flagellation to constantly remind them that they had no need of armour or shield but faith in their Lord.

They defiled the famed 1000 Steps with each motion toward the ornate gilded doors of the Tetan palace, thralls falling to the crack of the Palace guards las-arquebus by the score - but or very dozen that died a hundred more replaced them with ear piercing shrieks of fealty and blood lust.

Spine-darts and Marrow bolts came from the Zealots behind them in return, piercing the noble silver of the Palace guard with the sick defilement of harvest corpses from the last battlefield half a galaxy behind them.

Behind the seething rabid Thrall mass were the marvels Cinnagar, cobblestone and cluttered, wooden and stone buildings that had witnessed the early days of navigation. 

To Jol Gotika, Adherent of the Cult of the Thorn in the service of his Dominar, Incarnatio Tenebrarum, Lord Yn, it was another nameless, now burning backdrop, one more of a score of world he had fought on. 

Maul in hand, he bounded the stairs, thighs straining after so long in the low gravity of the belly of the Flesh Barge, leaping over the cover he smashed his grimy cudgel down on the silver and gold helm of the Palace guard, the feathers plumes on left shoulder tickling Jol’s nose, before with a snarl returned from the softness into the hard butt of another Guard’s rifle.

It cracked into his cheek, but the Chalactan used his lithe speed to drive the Ugallu into the Guard, cracking him in a burst of bone flesh and steel then bellowing out victory in the blessed name of his Lord.

“YN  CHA, YN CHA!” he screamed, his own blood dripping down his barely clad body satisfying as invigorating warmth radiated from the Rune branded into his chest.

He tore forward with a surge of dark side energy, the steps now so clogged with his fellow Rune thralls the Guard could barely move in the tide of bodies, their screams rising as high as the smoke across the rest of the city.

The last guard fallen, red staining the silver of their armor, some thralls took to looting them. Jol didn’t bother, such trinkets were meaningless true glory was found in killing and dying for his Lord,

Jol reached the gold gilded durasteel doors first, particles of refined carbonite, a famed export of Teta, used in the palaces construction filling his nose as Gugalanna cannon fired lumps of iron into the walls.

With his bare hands he pushed the stern face of the millenia dead Empress engraved on the palace doors, feeling the resistance behind as he heard some guards pleading for their lives behind him.

He could not stomach the thought he might once have been as weak as they…indeed he could not remember anything before the Blessed day of his branding.

Jol’s life began with the scent of his own charred flesh, held down by the Acolytes of the Thorn-cult of Lord Yn, the Rune twice the span of his large palm burnt into his very soul binding him to his Lord.

And what a Lord! What glories! Lord Yn had Risen and the Thorn-cult - made distinct from the Blade-cult, Saw-cult and Viper-cults that served Lord Yn by the greater adherence to the discipline of the Scourage-vine flagellation - served him faithfully as his barbed fist.

He could feel the resistance behind the door - not just the physical push back as more of his thrall brethren pushed, but the will of the resisters - like many in the ranks he was ‘touched’ by the Dark, able to pre-empt things, sense things - while nothing like the powers of the true Witches, Blades and Sorcerers it was nonetheless a boon he wielded happily in his Lords Service.

“Yn CHA!” he yelled as the setting mass of bodies twenty deep coordinated into a heave against the door, a Dark Preceptor in flayed skin robes behind them chanting glory to Lord Yn in a steady deep rhythm that timed their pushes.

“YN CHA!” they bellowed as the sky screamed with explosions as the last resisting fighters were overwhelmed by Locus Darts, spiralling down to demolish ancient buildings taking Sith and citizen alike with them.

Again the door resisted, but Jol could feel the resolve of those through the meter thick durasteel melting like the tallow candles about the the Thorn cult altar.

“YN CHA!” the push came again, Jol all but crushed himself by the weight of bodies…but the door gave.

Squeezing through he burst into the palace Ugallu high over his head the runes heated with the blood they had drunk already and thirsty for more.

Thick black plumes of blood mist tainted smoke rose over Cinnagar, ancient buildings belched flame and bodies as cobbled streets that had witnessed the first Navigators and welcomed visitors from newly found systems in ages past were paved in gore.

After a two week orbital siege the ground offensive had been short and easy.

Slave soldiers by the hundred thousand dumped in chunky landers, little better than boxes strapped to hyperdrives, upon the surface and let loose to pillage and destroy, guided by crude whip bearing slave drivers - and they in turn by the Swords that picked over the ruination, seeking anything of worth left behind by the near mindless savage hordes that sought mainly food and water.

Yn Sa’c’han’s boot crunched scraps of ancient parchment underfoot as he strode through the Library of the Palace.

His fist was dripping with the brain and blood of the former ‘Emperor’ of Teta, whose ‘noble lineage from the Warrior-Empress had afforded him no protection from the Sith, and would not protect his extensive family finding themselves at best concubines, at worst meals of his Swords. 

They had put up, Yn had to admit a decent fight with a professional trained militia and regulars…quite simply though Yn’s hordes were too large.

Five levels of shelves were being pulled apart, tomes torn or soiled as his helots sought any secret stashes of gems, he glanced at the old texts musing they were no doubt of great value to someone.

Not him.

His once potentially handsome face was covered with thick Invigoration tattoos that themselves hid scarred skin, cropped black hair concealed undeveloped horns from some distant zabrack ancestry, his body crossed with scars from the days he was among the hordes, before - by murder and opportunism - he had risen to Sword, and now Lord.

Such was the way of a Warlord in these times.

Totems of Longevity and Healing tied by sinews to his belt and pauldrons rang dull on his well worn Annuaki Shell, once silver torn from a Knight of the Dominar of Corellia, now coloured sooty red by blood and smoke of a hundred battlefields. 

Screams echoed down the velvet carpeted halls as cowering servants were found and set upon, most of Cinnagars defenders wiped out in orbit or by subsequent bombardment of barracks and major infrastructure.

“Save your breath, there are three weeks left,” Yn grinned, since the time of Darth Ruin and the first Sith Crusades that had seen the galaxy at last forcefully awakened from its stupor in the forge of war, any successful invasion was followed by three weeks of looting.

Not just to reward the soldiers, but also to gather more slaves for the horde, more skilled helots for the Flesh-Barges, food, water and other materiel to fill Carrion-Haulers, and of course blood for sacrifices and rituals of the Preceptors.

Impes was already out there seeking the ‘touched’ to use in her wyrd magicks and alchemies, the Dark Seeress a valuable ‘ally’, so far as any Sith could be to another.

The Palace Guard had provided solid resistance, slaying five Swords before one of their number, realizing the futility of the situation, turned on the others then pledged themselves to Lord Yn, this turncoat was now his Sword - a bloody Sigil thrall binding etched onto his forehead - and followed gingerly in his wake, Vibro-halberd still stained by the blood of his formerly sworn brothers.

Two hulking figures in gunmetal plate, draped in cloth now black-brown from soot and dried blood obscuring the original color, stomped forward holding a teen in each arm, four members wearing the regal purple, three girls and a male, behind them a tall thin Chalactan grimy with sweat and blood.

“Lord Yn,” the vast Scythe growled from durasteel teeth - his original long since beaten out of his mouth, as one of the girls struggled in his grasp,

“This ‘stick-man’ here was first in the Palace, he chased these prizes down for you,” the Scythe gestured to the Chalactan.

Jol kept his eyes on the floor unable to mee the gaze of his Lord, his brand burning seemingly through his body.

“Hmmmph,” Yn birfley glazned over Jol, noting only his now cracked cudgel “Give him a better weapon,” he said then though no more of the thrall.

With a grunt the Scythe looked around, plucked a tremor-sword from a dead guard and shoved in into Jols chest; the Scythe dismissed him with a grunt and nod and pulled the captives forward.

Yn’s six Scythes were his bodyguard, and most ‘trusted’ servants, Blood-Thralled by Sanguine Rituals devised by Impes to serve him on pain of a vicious Malacia curse - or so she said.

“Sword,” Yn turned to his newest thralled warrior, the turncoat
“Who are they?”

His golden carapace flecked with scratches the traitor bodyguard replied without flinching as he looked on his former charges.

“Duke Yorel, Duchess Tinia, and the countesses Ylara and Eidea, of the Royal Line,”

Yn nodded curtly

“Kill the duke and duchess,” he ordered.

“No, no!” the boy Yorel pleaded as the Scythe dropped him, his former protector rammed the vibrating point of the Halberd through his chest, the vibration weapon sending mad splatters of blood everywhere before the new 8th sword sealed his loyalty by severing the girl beside him.

“Take your pick of the countesses as your prize Sword, Dar’kun take the other to my chambers,” Yn finished before moving on, somewhere in the distance Lightsabrers crackled against each other as internal fighting broke out over some triviality, or perhaps attempt at unseating one of his swords.

Even surrounded by his Scythes, he knew he was never truly safe. 

He had killed his own Lord’s and masters numerous times, and the flight from Denon had damaged his standing forcing him to slay a handful of Swords who became too unruly.

Fortunately the powerful Blood Thrall bindings had kept his 23 remaining Darths in line thus far - he knew he had Impes to thank for that - but he had no doubt they each were devising ways to unwind the Blood-magick Malacia curse.

Battle, booty and victory kept his Blood Thrall Darths occupied - transit, peace and pecuniary gave them time to plot he could not allow.

Breathing in the copper tang of blood mist he felt a momentary sense of relief, this victory should assuage his warriors desires - for a time - he had to keep their ambitions focused outward, on the potential to carve out new fiefdoms for themselves in the deep core whilst he pursued his true ambition.

Scry-Fighters snapped overhead with metallic howls that rattled already unsteady buildings, slicing through the smoke leaving burning contrails in their wake.  Aged craft, like so much of their war gear, unchanged, like their tactics, for centuries. 

If Lord Yn was to truly rise above the hundreds of minor Sith Lords across the galaxy he needed new weapons and tactics, he was certain that the ‘Jedi enclave’ hidden in the core Impes had sensed held the secrets to the power he needed.

“Go, enjoy yourselves,” Yn dismissed his Scythes and new Sword, their bulky gun-metal forms stomped off to claim their prizes in slaves and booty, the new sword dragged the countess to a corner of the library without shame or delay.

Yn left them to their revelries picking over some of the tomes and artifacts of old Teta, sneering at a fallen portrait of the great Empress herself, gilded wooden frame cracked and splintered, wondering how she would have fared against some 3,000 ships and a million slave soldiers.

“Empress,” he bowed theatrically with faux respect then paused with a curious thought

“Emperor?…Emperor Yn,” he mused - it sounded good on his own tongue - how much sweeter on others?

She walked the lonely empty tunnels beneath the city, abandoned after generation 8 when at last Aethans could tolerate the intense radiation the Deep core beamed upon the surface.


Below here was the occasional electric whir as a cargo module traversing the Synaptic-Web  zooming along Resonance Cascade rails in the tunnel below her.

The Synaptic-Web remained the Tehcnoacries enormous underground logistics system offering swift frictionless transport of raw genomic material, rare-earth elements, specialized equipment, and processed biotics across the whole of the Technocracy, from the centre of Alixandraea to the most distant polar laboratory through tunnels tens of meters in diameter that webbed through the planets upper mantle.

Eileithyia’s silent steps were silent as the static humm died down, she brooded on her most recent failure.

What am I even trying to prove, what is the point…

She was not a prisoner, but she was not free, she could wander where she liked so long as she was never seen.

A glamour to hide her features in public, a quick soft step in private and keeping to empty places in between training, reading, learning…all for…what….

Coming to an intersection, the drab grey phirk of the walls contrasting the vivid red directional markers she faced three choices, ahead to Mentors small home, left to the bounce pads to the surface and its daylight, or right….

She headed right, down past pipes and conduits to the ‘abyss’.

She passed the 20 kilometers of tunnels long and 2 kilometers down in mere minutes idly flash-teleporting herself forward, one of the few skills Mentor didn’t grumble about her being bad at.

Through open musty doors she passed the artificial octagon tunnel into the craggy nature formed ‘abyss’.

One of the first mines of Ultra-dense ore found on Aethas, the walls were all of pure Noctilith, light and Aether-absorbing ore, the Phirk and marbles that had once filled this void extracted long ago to build the city above her, till the mining operations ventured to richer veins elsewhere on the planet.

With an unsteady shuffle she sat on the edge of the Abyss staring into the light eating depths, the silence once her cloak settled absolute.

She liked the quiet here, surrounded by the Noctilith she couldn't hear others thoughts, with no reflective surfaces she couldn’t be reminded of her imperfections, and absent any other beings she didn’t have to wear her Aether Glamors or Misdirection shawls, no need to vanish memories of those she passed by.

The darkness here demanded nothing of her.

But it gave nothing either.

There was peace, but no purpose given by the emptiness here, and direction without seeming meaning provided by Mentor.

Whatever plans the Technocracy had for her, the meaning of her life, was derailed by her deformity.  Mentor, she guessed, was just trying to get some return on investment for the Technocracies resources squandered on her, and always failing.

She pulled her cloak a little tighter as the heat drained from her in the solitude, recalling the touches of fire that ended each tip of Aethena’s hair.

If her ‘sister’ ever hugged her, would she feel warmth from those flames? What did her sister's voice sound like unfiltered by transmission orb, what was it like to look into her eyes?

Eileithyia conjured the image and feeling of her sister in her mind as the silent void surrounded her.

So many times she had thought to seek her sister out, or her brother even.  And everytime..every time she felt tempted…she found herself here, alone, imagining. 

Afraid of her sister's reaction, afraid Mentor was right on the consequences of being seen, and always, always…

Alone.

Eight Aethans sat at a triangular table, usually three each side one member was, to the annoyance of some and snide satisfaction of others - but never grief or sadness - recently deceased.

A ninth Aethan stood idly leaning on one of the columns, the frosted alpine air gently blowing her loose chiton, pure white as the snow of the Isasian peaks, crimson hair streaming back, each strand seeming to not end but meld into an eldritch flame.

The Eight at the table ignored her best they could.  She had no rank…yet by virtue of her very nature outranked them all.

For now they proceeded without Her. If She wished to speak all would listen, if She said nothing, then they assumed they had Her blessing, not that it was or should be needed…

“And this is all verified,”

High Director Varo Kyhs Anderis, had just been reviewing applications for the recently vacant position of Director of Genehancement - its prior occupant Dastur Len Kkost having ‘fallen’ into a protein recycler - when the emergency session was called.

On the top of the list of candidates had been one Doctor Jurahl Fid Calrahn who had submitted his application within 30 seconds of the Biometric Census affirming Dasturs death - one might consider that suspicious in sub-beings with far slower cognition and reflexes.

“All six choirs acting independently observed the same portents…yes Grathoss including the Generation 29’s, the test will be successful, crops 51 through 78 will fail….twelve thousand bled the phirk grip of a dozen hundred ” Director of Extrapolation, Korlas Fir Onderant replied her wavering words matching her rolling unfocused eyes - the one jarring aspect of her otherwise sweet feminine features typical of the X-Aleph2 stock for that Gene Generation.

Extrapolation focused on using the aether in ‘choirs’ reminiscent of the ancient Miraluka practice of the Ter-Sene - bound choirs of those with precognitive talents, chained in place in a group mind.

The Technocracy of course had eliminated such inefficient mechanisms, the native Aethan telepathic group mind perfected from Anzat ancestral telepathy did away with the crude binding of the Ter-Sene and enhanced effectiveness, requiring far smaller choirs.

Based at the Oraculum-Ziva at the peak of Mount Varas, the highest mountain on Aethas, the choirs of Pre-cogs focus was to seek scientific discoveries and technological advancement that had yet to occur and bring it to the present to accelerate the Program of Genesis Deus…

…but as per the Articles of Confluency they were required every 30 Rotationals to perform a Risk Assessment Precognitive Sweep - which had detected the coming of a vast armada from Outside. 

“More exact details, when where, known unknowns…3 ships down, the mother died in childbirth…the child is broken,”

Onderant went on in her rambling tone.

So much time spent peering into the future in the thin air of the Oraculum-Ziva left her mind somewhat detached from the linear progression of typical temporal experience, an occupational hazard as she answered questions no one had asked, or perhaps wouldn't for years, or had years earlier, or indeed might never ask.

The Other Directors were used to her fluid stream of words and it didn’t impede her usefulness so long as pertinent points could be extracted.

“Scouts have been sent,” Director of Purgation, Guardian Primus Tahrn Jahn Kestis added, his Generation 26 features the epitome of what had been handsome for a short time before his generation was superseded by 27s, then 28s.   

“And we are attempting to position an Aether Obelisk,”

“The only vessels large enough to transport an ‘Obelisk’ are the Atlassia haulers…one is being positioned now…” Arvvi Vis Olnerr explained across from Anderis, his features identical to his fellow Generation 29, the  Director of Apportionment beside him, both sharing the same Y-Alpha Chromosomal clade, thus far the only one able to remain stable following Generation 29 modifications in male embryos.

“...but it may take another few days to reach a proper vantage point given the continued problems we’ve had with the Viriilith Flux Drives,”

All eyes now turned to the Generation 27 Anmell Lar Qwanm, the more patrician features of his generation seemingly ill-fitting the Director of Infrastructure and Manufactures who was barely competent at his task…

“Well, we’ve had no need for out of system travel for several Orbitals….” he tried to excuse himself keenly aware of the Director of Apportionments eyes upon him.

Despite the ice-core blue of his yes and his easy charming countenance, Director of Apportionment Stinn Lek Grathoss was friend to no one, and scrutinized all, even Directors, and especially those below Generation 25 who were subject to annual reviews of their ‘Deferment’ from ‘Resolution’ - the euphemism given to the process of systemically eliminating from the Program members of ‘Outdated’ generations that were no longer considered useful. 

Anderis suspected Grathoss wanted to purge all lower generations, they offended his far more acute Generation 29 olfactory and gravitic senses, but Anderis had the confidence of Her - that near divinity staring out the window over the sharp snow wisped mountains in the radiation heavy morning light that peeled the green-purple stars of the deep core back.

Indeed had She not been such a success after being created some 30 orbitals prior, Anderis would certainly have been ‘resolved’, his neural matter harvested for recycling and integration into bio-hard-ware, decades ago.

“...I will personally ensure resources to Flux Drive production are increased,” Qwanm said with a puff of his chest, none of the other directors feeling much confidence.

Only those below Generation 28 were aware of the political necessities that had required Qwanm’s appointment many orbitals past when Generation 27 had been new and frustrated with a lack of representation on the Directorate, feeling threatened by the rapid jump to Generation 28 already occurring.

A compromise candidate not overly ambitious was needed, and Qwanm had been the least offensive to the Directors at the time.

Of course those same frustrations of stifled superiority were now being exhibited by the 29’s. Anderis needed to manage them carefully.

“We are unprepared to an invasion, we have only two Aetheria Destroyers active -the rest scheduled for retirement, and twelve Phaeron Gliders, and as I’ve repeatedly emphasized we need more Guardians,” the Guardian Primus went on looking pointedly at the empty chair for the Director of Genehancment whose occupants had repeatedly failed to increase the population much beyond 300,000

“And more weapons,” this was a more general condemnation, the bulk of all resources were dedicated to Genesis Deus - the Purgation directorate receiving the minimum resources as  specified in the Articles of Confluency. 

“What threat could outsiders possibly pose?” Chrell Cev Chronrim replied dismissively, the generation 28 Director of Aethengineering,

“Even if they manage to get through all the micro kingdoms, pirates and the enormous astro navigational hazards, their minds and bodies must be so backward compared to us, the product of unenhanced reproduction,”

The mere thought of reproduction that was not guided by the principles of Genesis Deus - in which each zygote while in utero was carefully tweaked with precision aether-surgery and chromosomal insertions to enhance the resulting offspring strengths and remove prior generation weaknesses - was laughable to Chronrim and indeed all the Directors it seemed, except Kestis.

“A simple virus, a few aether illusions and teleported bombs, for all their millions they will be dispatched in mere hours,”

“It seems overconfidence was added back to your gene generation Chronrim,” Kesits replied deadpan, earning a snide sneer in reply.

“Chronrim is correct, a fully equipped brigade of Generation 25s should be worth a legion on the ground, if it came to that.” Olnerr the Gen 29 added

“Both Generation 30s have proved adept in delivering apocalyptic levels of destruction… and we would have more 30s if the limitations of our colleagues here were addressed…”

All eyes now turned to the oldest member of the Directorate.

Director of Nutritiology and Ecology, Essea Nal Ghrass was Generation 23 and stood out among the alabaster and ivory skin norm of all Aethans with her dark skin, eyes and hair, a result of genetic recessive reinforcements on all major chromosomal pairings - a 1-in-1.1285999x10^25 power chance.

Such would normally have led to immediate Resolution at birth, however she had been only the third Generation 23 created and, as it the deviation did not impeded her functioning, she was spared. 

She had Anderis confidence having almost single handedly developed a figurative and literal smorgasbord of genetically-enhanced foodstuffs, liquid supplements, and even distribution logistics that meet- and indeed surpass the unique Aethan dietary requirements necessary for Generations 25-29.

But not Generation 30.

Bespoke Uranium-238-Tetrairon-Phospholipid Complexes needed for delivering the higher uranium requirements for mitochondrial fusion thus far could only be produced artificially, at near ruinous expense.

The Technocracy had no currency, sub-program inputs were measured in work hours, liters, grams, aeths and watts - as many resources went into feeding the two Generation 30s as 10,000 Generation 29s would require. 

They could not produce more Generation 30s because they could not feed them.

“These limitations,” Ghrass replied in her sultry voice with effortless poise
“Will be addressed in time, we have a number of experimental crops and herds being developed that show promise of consistently and naturally producing the required lipid chains,”

Grathoss focused intently on Ghrass. No one's existence  offended him so much as she, to be so old and outdated yet still pass her Deferment examinations each orbital was maddening to the Director of Apportionment, and her dark failures were a stark visual assault on his carefully curated Generation 29 aesthetic preferences.

To Grathoss, and Olnerr, the only reason Generation 30s were not being produced on mass was Ghrass failures.

Anderis eyed both the 29’s, well aware - as was Ghrass - of the true reason the production of 30s had been suspended - and ensuring that reason never touched Anderis upper conscious thoughts lest the Director of Apportionment in his constant telepathic surveillance  seize on it to have Anderis Resolved.

Eileithyia Anderis allowed the release in his fifth subconsciousness to resolve the pent up need to express the thought - a weakness of generations lower than 27. 

Grathoss made no motion, Anderis had gotten away with it, while he had rank and Her nominal protection, he still did not wish to test the fact in open conflict with Grathoss.

“I’m sure you’ll have much more success this Orbital Director,” Grathoss chimed in with a supportive smile

“We need to make a formal announcement” Anderis finally spoke

The Articles of Confluency were clear - “Secrecy in research findings and methodologies is Anathema to scientific progress, all results, failures and successes must be shared” Over the years this had been interpreted as a call to complete transparency with all Program Members on every matter of government.

“One that affirms the reality of our safety, and the uninterrupted progression of the Program, but also the need for increased resources to be provided to the Directorate of Purgation…” Anderis nodded toward Kestis who reciprocated respectfully.

“...Guardian Primus, devise a program to ensure that these ‘Sith’ - and I use the word loosely for such an inelegant horde of unrefined wastes of nucleic acids - never get past Prakith with the utmost efficient use of resources,”

All paused at that moment, their eyes remaining fixed as they were but aetheric senses attuned to the Ninth Aethan in the room.

Aethena, the Glorious Generation 30, embodiment of the Technocracies quest for perfection remained still, the morning breeze only shifting the chiton that caressed her perfect feminine form. 

Her non-intervention taken as acceptance. The meeting was adjourned.


The Armada was ravenous as a plague of Lokhust, consuming vast quantities of food, water and fuel everywhere it went. It could not remain in one place for long.

Lord Yn stared, fingers steeped from his command throne overseeing the helots silently working the toggles, dials and levers of his Throne-ship, the Malevolens Mictlanis main bridge. 

The vast E-Temmen-Enki class vessel had been built in an earlier age as a mobile seat that bridged the foundations of the heaven and earth, taken, retaken and taken again the Malevolens Mictlanis was at least three centuries old, and had had twice as many Darths, Jedi-Kings and Prophet-Emperors called it theirs in that time.

Few Lords had the resources to build new vessels, so those vessels they did have were rigorously maintained and repaired, each vessel increasingly unique as scars of battle were patched over across decades.

Naturally none spoke in the long open bridge that was cathedral like in its length and solemnity, all had tongues and other auditory organs removed, such was the price of leaving the bulk carrier vessels crammed with slave soldiers - a price most willingly paid for the relative safety and more frequent food.

The dais for his throne was two storeys above the main trench of consoles, his Sigil thralled Swords patrolling slowly along gantries beneath, Blood Thralled Scythes closer around him - he could see the helots, themselves bound by simple Runes etched into their faces, but the helots could not quite see him maintaining an ‘aura of inscrutability’.

At his feet, whimpering and wearing nothing but the chain around her neck and remains of a once opulent white zephyr silk dress was the Tetan countess his new Sword had not chosen. 

After the looting following the victory at Teta the Fleet was, for the moment, fat with supplies, thousands of new slaves being beaten into submission by whip masters across the engine and broadside decks, along with valuable star charts and directions that indicated a number of small agrarian worlds were nearby, paying nominal homage to the Overking of Prakith and various local minor lords.

He had to keep the armada moving and carefully split off sections - with some 2 million beings across 3,000 vessels it was impossible for any but the largest systems to supply it for long. 

Of course splitting off attack groups carried its own risks, but at the very least Yn could divide his forces on his own terms. 

He would progress through the Grimnir Agri world,s doling out feifs to his Lords, then overthrow this ‘Overking’ and hold there for a time to rebuild numbers before pressing toward the pirate kingdoms and Byss, and branching into the Cor-Sec outposts.

This would shore up his rear flank and give him a solid grip on the heart of the Byss run, as well as gradually reducing the resource burden of his core fleet and jettisoning the weaker vessels and Cults and Zealots to the new fiefs.

Then he could follow Impes visions of incredible power dwelling in the Danger Zones where few ships ventured and fewer returned.

Rising up his Annunaki Shell clanked and scraped, his skin moist on the underclothes that reeked from his sweat and blood. It was too risky to ever take it off, blood bindings prevented his Scythes from even thinking of betrayal without vomiting their intestines out, but such rituals could not be applied to every Sword.

Before the fleet departed he had just one task to consider. 

Grasping the chain that served as a necklace he yanked the countess up, her willowy weak form flopping in response.

“Well what should I do with your world? Crown myself Lord of it?” he grinned knowing full well he had no intention of doing so…It puzzled his Swords that he hadn’t…they were just too short sighted to see he wanted more than another March or Kingdom, he wanted real power lasting power. 

The Power of Eternal life.

“Or bombard what's left from orbit, put the scraps out of their misery?”

He yanked her straight up to his chest, the waif of a thing barely reaching his shoulders, the disparity in size, her unclad and white from a life indoor opulence and him caked in filth, sealed behind layers of dura-steel was nigh comical causing him to chuckle at a joke he couldn’t be bothered sharing.

“Come here,” he pulled her along to his command override consol, the aged buttons seldom used but gave him full override control over the ships key functions, and most importantly the thermal cannons on the underside.

“See that button?” he pointed to a well worn seemingly unimportant brown square beneath faded aurebesh that once read its function.

“Press that Cinnagar burns to the ground…and I set you free. Don’t press it, Cinnagar, well what’s left of it, lives, but you stay mine? Which will it be?”

For a brief moment she looked like she would point to the button, a tiny sliver of hope for her freedom lightened the eternal night of her new existence.

She cowered back shaking her head knowing her choice didn’t matter, he would never let her go.

She was right.  But the little moment of Joy he got to create, then snuff, from her had been entertaining.

“HA!” he boomed “you learn your place quickly, I might keep you longer,” 

“Rab Šaqu [Captain]! Begin departure, there is nothing left for use here.”

No sense wasting Thermal Cannons on a corpse, and who knew if things turned he might have to retreat back here later. 

“Your Heading Lord,” called the Rab Šaqu in his croaking aged voice from below in the command pits

Yn briefly consulted the charts splayed across a nearby table, picking the simplest course, the next system deeper into the core - why complicate matters?

“On to Keeara Major!”

Dr. Jurahl Fid Calrahn sat on the edge of his seat, a sensation of something approximating anticipation bubbling at his thoughts, almost eliciting a physical reaction in his stomachs as it would’ve his distant ancestors.

He’d traveled to the Ecclesia from the nearby Genos-Ziva in person, an abiding sense of Destiny coursing through the aether about him as soon as Aethena’s sublime voice had sounded across the planet, summoning all 301,523 Aethan citizens to attend, or overhear the Gathering. 

Situated on a plain at the top of the rise upon which the First City, resplendent Alixandraea, was built, the Ecclesia was comprised mostly of Asporite - a gleaming ultra dense mineral known also as White-Heart - that reflected the aether and the snow with pure, clean, White.

A vast circular theater sat at the base of descending rows of Asporite steps, the circumference ringed by doric columns inlaid with gold that held a magnificent mosaic dome aloft, images from the lives of the Glorious Founders, Isas, Varasian, Alixa - all rendered in their tiles.

He stared into the knowing eyes of a mosaic image of ‘Soron Varas upon the First Landing on Aethas’, and recalled the line from the Founders Autobiography, “The Joy of Humility,”

“I stood upon this wild untamed hill and looked to the Mountains, awed by the majesty wrought by the blind processes of geology, humbled by their creation, wondering just what a little intentional vision might’ve added, not to supplant the inevitable process of nature, but simply, guide and smooth the way to more perfectly formed mountains, more laminar streams…”

How ingenious and farsighted Varas was, seeing the potential to guide evolution upon its inevitable course toward the Apotheosis of the Final Species.

To comprehend that cognition, science and reason were Evolutions' means of furthering that progress no less than random mutation and natural selection.  Truly Varas had delivered a paradigm shift in the way the Universe was seen…alas he was rejected by his myopic contemporaries.   

As the Ecclesia filled with ever more Aethans, Jurahl saw all too many with that same backward mindset in attendance. 

Clothing was practical upon Aethas, most of the assembling crowd wore their simple, neat pocketed Lab coats and working suits, many of the younger women simple chitons, a few though overlaid this with Miralukan remnants - shawls for the women and kin-sashes for the men - a uniform, Jurahl mused of conservatism.

Once filled, and in utter silence, the Guardians appeared, their dusky gray Phirk armour smudges against the white asporite purity of the Ecclesia’s steps and columns, the open air theater filled with the breeze of the mountains, air thin, cool and sweet from frosted untouched peaks.

Among the crowd he noted a handful of ‘fichas’ - Actuaries of the Directorate of apportionment in their white leather jackets trying to be intimidating. What a waste of mind Jurahl thought, as if society so perfectly guided by Varas vision needed such ‘policing’.

Clearing a path without fuss strode the Directors of the Technocracy in crisp suits of satin sheened Voarach silk.

The fabric made from the cocoon threads of the deadly gene-engineered arachnid, one of numerous such species designed to by ‘worthy’ predators of the Aethan race, a further pressure to ensure only the fittest survived.

Finally came High Director Varo Kyhs Anderis himself, his coat deep blue, lapels white with the Triquetra gently stitched upon it.  Jurahl felt the twitches of what would’ve been a scowl in a more facially expressive ancestral gene generation.

Merely Generation 24 Anderis was well past his use by date, though his smooth, no doubt shatterpoint youthened face showed little more than a few thin lines around the eyes beneath still mostly dark hair.

His last three conformations as High Director, each giving him another 10 Orbitals -and more importantly his Deferment from Resolution - was due solely to the success of Project Aethenaea, something Anderis took far too personal much credit for.

But behind him…

Jurahl stiffened with subconscious desire to impress, his chest puffing out…damn instinct, will need to correct that in the next modification of Atlantiades…. he mentally noted. 

Sitting only one row back from the circular stage Jurahl had never been so close to Her…the Divine, the Closest the Program had come to the dream of Genesis Deus in three millennia of toil…the ‘Goddess’ herself…Aethena. 

She moved like a gentle mist off the snow covered peaks in a loose Chiton of pure white, red sashes about her waist, a crimson light seeming to radiate from her eyes and surround her flowing red hair, some strands of which seemed to defy gravity, forming a bloody halo that framed impeccably perfect features of radiant alabaster skin and crisp emerald eyes. 

The very universe seemed to move about her rather than she within it.

Had he not beheld the glory of his own creation in Atlantiades…well…he could appreciate why so many fell under her spell. 

She was a truly majestic creation, a fitting step upon the path of Genesis Deus, without which Atlantiades could never have existed. 

Perhaps if he could secure an audience…

Surely She would understand how, perfect though she seemed, more had to be done and he, in all humility, was the one to lead that next phase.

The Directors stood in a loose circle behind Anderis in the Speakers circle, the very center of the Ecclesia theater floor, a golden circle inlaid with a Bloodstone Triquetra that through the aether amplified the speakers ‘voice’ via the telepathic Aethenaea Cortex across several thousand kilometers, booster plinth relays of Noctilith across the planet the two other cities Atrisaea and Isasirina, the deepest of the Polar laboratories, most isolated Steppe Military bases, and even the mines and factories on the nearby inner planets of the system.

Aethena stood just behind him, radiating true power, why She tolerated the ailing old fool was beyond him…but he acceded to her wisdom, she was Generation 30, superior to his own 28 in every possible way, the depth of her strategic insight unfathomable to one as limited as himself. 

Yes she undoubtedly was using Anderis for some purpose beyond Jurahl’s comprehension, but doubtless all for the Program - all for Gensis Deus.

Ah if she were to turn that Genius to Atlantiades! The wonders we could create!

“Honored colleagues and Members, “Anderis spoke solemnly
“The tranquility of our home, the progress of the Great Work of Genesis Deus, is in peril…”

Shock - or the Aethan equivalent of such a mix of curiosity and attentiveness - reverberated across the Ecclesia, though none showed visible signs of it, such crude physical displays were long since bred out of them. 

On the highest tier of the steps, lost in the crowd, concealed  by her best light grey shawl, and an Aetheric Glamour that made her appear to any observer an amalgam of non-memorable average Generation 28 female features Eileithyia listened carefully to the thoughts she could not block out.

She heard the chittering attempts to scry what Anderis meant, many, uncharitably thinking this another ploy for re-affirmation of his position, his term expiring at the end of the next Orbital.

Yet her eyes, as ever out of focus from each other, remained on Aethena who showed an air of divine indifference.

Did Aethena know she was there?

Did Aethena even know Eileithyia existed?

Did she realize that she had lived under her older sister's shadow for 16 orbitals?

Would such a demi-god like being even care?

For a brief moment Eileithyia felt the cool prick of another's gaze sweep over her…Valence it had to be, somewhere among the crowd hidden as she was, the Goddesses Brother ever spurning the spotlight. 

Did he know of her? Would he sense her? 

Eileithyia had made no more effort to conceal nor reveal herself to them.

Was her existence, her failure of form and function kept from them as it was so much of the Technocracy by Mentor's mind wipes?

Eileithyia was no prisoner, but the knowledge of her flaws kept her shamed enough to conceal herself when she did venture out - something the High Director no doubt found a relief.

Would his reputation suffer if her tainted person was known more widely?

“...Precognitive Choirs, affirmed by Guardian Scouts and the Temporal Forward viewing of Lady Aethena herself.” he paused on the mention of her name for the weight it carried.

“...have determined a growing threat approaches the Deep Core, the balance of power among the Warlords will be vastly upset, and Aethan lives will be lost…” his tone was firm and gave away no hint of upset, indeed all that Eileithyia could hear in the minds of those around him was opportunistic ambition of how their little side projects could benefit from more resources, the scientists already coming up with arguments on how ‘crucial’ their field was.

“...Strategies are being formed to ensure, overall, the balance of power between the Warlords is maintained, and with minimal intervention they remain focused solely on each other, none ever dominating the rest.

Now more than ever it is essential we accelerate Genesis Deus in any way we can - double your efforts, increase your Precedenture appointments - conceive and create to further the Program of Gensis Deus.

Aethani Dominabutir Astris, Aethani Dominabutir Mortis, Aethani Dominabutir Vita” he added the creed

Aethans Will dominate or rather, ‘overcome’ and exceed the Stars, Death and Life itself.

Jurahl nodded in agreement and took up the response chant knowing, a comical but pleasing method of enhancing social cohesion -

He smiled know the true victory from this crisis would belong to Project Atlantiades.

Finally the "Prologue" to the Aethan Cycle...

A much deeper look into the Technocracy before the Devastation and we see the impetus of how Genesis Deus had been progressing after Soron Varas had established his sequestered outpost.  To say that he was playing the Long Game is a vast understatement.

Yet...how much would he recognize the society/experiment that he'd begun millennia ago?  Clearly, the "pure science" that he'd sought has drastically changed as it simultaneously attempts to adhere to his original plan.  Even 30 gene generations later, human foibles and hubris seem to be tantamount within the Technocracy.  However, this really shouldn't come as any surprise; after all, look at the man himself (he is nothing if not the perfect example of the thin line between genius and said hubris).

To wit: the 8 scientists of the Aethan Directorate are both the product of as well as avatars of Soron's genius&plans.  Naturally; this IS "Genesis Deus" (apropos sentiments were never so true as here).  On paper (or more appropriately holofile), they should be the administrative force propelling Soron's Vision and Plans into the future but they are likewise impeded by their own behaviors.  What's worse is that there is a very real stasis that seems to have completely disrupted most progress.  One wonders if the three--sorry, TWO--saviors of the Technocracy could solve this lack of advancement...

Another irony: the Aethan's Temporal Department gives them literal insight to the Future so much so that they are able to pinpoint the attacking Sith armada yet we know that they are still victims of the Devastation.  More hubris perhaps?  Or have they bred the necessary caution & fear out of their society leading to their own downfall?

But it is also the other side of this equation that bears its own variables.  Lord Yn is most definitely a product of the Sith of his time with the rampant backstabbing, betrayal, and assassination.  I find it more than a little ironic (and funny) that the Aethans and the Sith abide by such edicts as "survival of the fittest" and "absolute meritocracy" and, most compelling of all, that "might makes right" (just look at Aethenaea: she is by far the most powerful being amongst powerful beings, a goddess amidst demigods, one whom the demigods ALL defer to her).  It's as if both Aethans and Sith are ideological extremes of each group, their target the same: ultimate power.  All that differs is the means by which to achieve it.

Yet, for as rigid as each society is, there are those outliers that are able to live and operate: for the Technocracy is Eileithyia and for the Sith is Jol.  I suspect though that while they may share certain similarities their journeys and destinations are figurative worlds apart.

Meta-note: OUTSTANDING beginning to a HIGHLY anticipated next narrative in the Aethan Cycle!!!  The Technocracy is just as interesting as I'd read about...and so much more.  Another example of LSG's literary genius: the Sith of the New Sith Wars in the Draggulch Period have mostly been seen during the time of Skere Kaan's Brotherhood at the VERY end of the Period; here is a Sith Group (to say that they are a collective Order would be a misnomer) are entirely independent from other Dark Side adherents, where there is not "one homogenous" Sith Order but rather a plethora of warbands and gangs, a danger by virtue of the chaos it breeds.

FANTASTIC world building and SPECTACULAR visuals!!  Star Wars graphic design has never looked as good as what I've seen here in the Forums (looking at you FT and LSG^^).

P.S. Special thanks to LSG for trusting me with his characters/ideas/etc.  It was SO much fun to delve into the mindset of the Technocracy as well as Lord Yn's vast armies.

Excellent addition to the Dramatis Personae, some fantastic background information concerning both the Sith Forces as well as the Technocracy.

Outstanding world-building!  From the descriptions to the accoutrements, the bios to the locals, I feel like I've got a great foundation upon which to jump into "Sins" and the extension of the larger Star Wars galaxy.

And that's what I enjoy most about the Aethan Cycle: we've been given a rich HISTORY and narrative about a period of time that the (now) Legends Continuity hadn't really touched upon, much less built up.  I feel like this is what makes the Galaxy Far, Far Away unique and interesting.

In fact, it is by that very fact that we're reminded that the Star Wars Universe is incredibly, Colossally, MONUMENTALLY, BIG!!!, something that I think most of the current canon mistakenly misses out on.  Much like how even with hyperspace travel, and distances within the galaxy still take a LONG time, there is the opportunity to create wonderfully rich and distinctive experiences, societies, and, indeed, entire collectives that not only add to the mythos but in my humble opinion, make Star Wars BETTER.

I am both humbled and honored that LSG has shared with me his creation and allowed me to co-mingle my own, not to mention the truly amazing submissions he's given to my own stories and, reciprocally, allowing me to do so for his  :)

And now: MORE Sins of the Aether!

“You know why it will be you?” Mentor thought to her mind as she slid unnoticed into the Aegis Weave phirk armour in the echoing dark grey halls of the Katharos-Ziva - the steppe fortress of the Directorate of Purgation. 

Around her ‘fellow’ Guardians checked rounds in Adamas pistols, charges on Styx rifles and poured their own aether energy into Noctilith aether-sinks in the core of their Astrapi Swords.

”This is the first time we have engaged Outsiders in 3 Gene Generations - the Directors, Anderis especially, can’t be seen to fail, but don’t want to be seen relying on a Gen 30 to win…” she had replied

She had been ordered, so Mentor said, to join the engagement - unseen of course. A few misdirection shawls or Veils of Mist along with the memory ‘adjustment’ of one member of the strike force and Eileiythia had snuck in.

Eileithyia thought it more likely Mentor was curious what these Sith were like to feed his compulsive need to know everything. 

Yet, she didn’t doubt at least the High Director knew Mentor and she existed - but why ask for her now after not a word for her whole life? But the ease with which she had ‘infiltrated’ the Katharos-Ziva suggested perhaps the Guardian Primus too intended for her to be there - as ever ‘unseen’.

She had made the lonely trek mostly hidden on the daily supply resonance cascade module to the Katharos-Ziva, the last 50 kilometers through the tunnel on foot by Aether-teleport.

A much smoother ride than the aged Phaethon Glider that bumped along the jagged hyperspace lanes of the Deep core with such intense turbulence lesser beings would’ve long since experienced vertigo and extreme motion sickness.

Aethans were not so weak, the Guardians still in close packed ranks, forty in all, facing the sides that would lift to disgorge them.

”If I go and we fail no one will know, and I am no great loss, If I go and we succeed, still no one knows,”

At that Mentor had ‘nodded’ despite being hundred of Kilometers away at the time she was travelling she could still ‘feel’ it -  the closest he ever came to showing his approval of something she said or did and so something she, despite herself - was always alert for.

”If only you’d apply that sharp mind to your own follies!” he’d grunted to dispel any praise she might interpret
 
Eileithyia sat at the far end of the ship, equipped no differently from any of the others, listening to the curious thoughts of the other 39 even as she wondered if she could contribute anything of worth.

In spite of a lifetime of training she had never fought anyone in a life or death struggle - but then neither had any Aethan for decades. 

This ‘scouting’ expedition was a test, for the Guardians, for her, and for the Directorate.

”Use this opportunity,” Mentor had pressed her, still poking at her mind

“Prove what you are capable of!”.

But to whom? Even if by some miracle she could kill a Sith - who could she tell but Mentor?

She was still herself. And that was unworthy of Aethas, no matter the service offered.

Aethas a world of scientists and polymaths, their defense force the minimum as per the Articles of Confluency…still every Aethan was subject to a mimetic burst direct into their Aethenaean Cortex the functional equivalent of "5,000 practice hours" of military training and experience and performed an Orbital of practical military service.

All told they should have ample physical superiority to baseline humans, Anzat and more, and be more than a match for any infantry the galaxy wide…or such was the assumption. 

There was no hint of doubt in the others around her, they were all Members of the Program, Generation 25 to 28.

They didn’t know Failure, imperfection or defeat.

Eileithyia did.

Perhaps that was why she alone held reservations about the inevitability of Aethan success.

”That’s a strength!” she could hear Mentor thinking in response to her own thoughts, “Use it!”

She wondered sometimes at just what Mentor was trying to teach…and indeed if even he had any cohesive plan in place.

But who else had she to guide her?

She put the thought aside and contemplated the border situation as she kept her head held back tight on the bulkhead to stop it rattling, her Aethena cortex hearing the other 39 Guardians thoughts almost as loudly as her own…boredom, anticipation, idle daydreams…little of worth.

The interlopers to the Deep Core were pushing hard and fast out of Teta emboldened by their victory.

Between them and the red line Anderis had drawn of Prakith were only the Grimnir Agriworlds, scrappy worlds she had heard where farmers scraped a living to feed minor port and industrial cities, none of the worlds worth Teta or Prakith claiming power over, local warlords and mafia feuding over those paltry scraps.

They would be decimated by the Sith fleet and provide vast numbers of slaves and resources - it would prime the Sith for an effective invasion of Prakith.

The Technocracy would strike hard and fast on the Sith rear lines in the midst of a Foreseen battle to cause the new invaders to lose their momentum and give the local Warlords time to regroup, bleeding the Sith momentum.

Continued monitoring, assassination and sabotage would serve to maintain a rough equilibrium between competing factions.

There was no desire among the Directorate to expand Aethas influence or power, they lacked not only the numbers, but also the desire. 

Purgatio Astra, the inevitable cleansing of the stars, would not commence until at least Gene Generation 40 or higher when individual Aethan superiority to other species had reached an utterly overwhelming level, immortality and substantive non-physical existence a given among the future generations.

She wondered if she would ever contribute anything to that future.

“Exiting Hyperspace, begin cloaking,”  the pilot ordered behind the bulkhead. 

As the vessel shuddered the Groupmind of the 40 Guardians blended to form a simulacrum of the empty void that settled over the vessel, a Veil of Mist shrouding their, and four other vessels in the small battle group - an Aetheric cloak to supplement the mechanical Nyx Shrouds.

Eileithyia contributed no more and no less to the concealment than the absolute average in Aeths per second, a triviality given it was already divided over 40 minds, allowing her to concentrate more on the Telepathic whispers.

She had never been near an Outsider mind before, or even another world.

Few apart from the Guardian scouts had - the Outsiders mental whispers, even at what was still astronomical distances were crude and unrefined - the blunt shrieks of barely coherent animals, less subtle than the predatory Vorynx, more dull witted than a Gormin herd beast with a brain injury.

It astonished her that she could share ancestors with such imperfect beings. Deformed as she was, she towered above these motes of dust.

But dust could, with momentum from wind or river, or sheer accumulated weight, grind a mountain to nothing with enough time. 

She needed to be cautious that arrogance did not too quickly enter the Groupmind.

The pilot's thoughts streamed through her head, she saw through their eyes the battle in orbit - blunt inelegant vessels more rust than metal fired solid shot projectiles at each other with the occasional sizzling crack of plasma cannons lighting with eerie yellow the dusty gray curve of the planet below.

Thousands of lives winked out of existence every moment and barely half an hour since they dropped out of hyperspace and she had felt numbers equal to the entire population of Aethas die twice over on the surface.

They passed kilometer long vessels in which brute creatures toiled fuelling combustion engines, their minds set only to not being whipped and snatching bites from other works fallen from exhaustion to feed their ravenous bellies.

These vessels unleashed broadsides upon each other, the Invaders larger with three rows of cannon breaking apart the smaller local warlords vessels.

Minds slightly more complex, but still less intricate than a tunnel-gobril in her opinion - commanded them formulating laughably simplistic tactical third dimensional responses. 

This would be all too easy.


Silent apart front the sharp buzz of refrigerant lasers cooling the neural matter of former members of the program behind crips glossy white wall, Arvvi Vis Olnerr and Stinn Lek Grathoss strode side by side, the Gene Generation 29 men identical in every aspect apart from their clothes.

Grathoss in the white leather trench coat of the Actuaries of his Directorate of Apportionment, Olnerr in the simple dark blue attire of the Space Transit Directorate that he chaffed at.

“This crisis is an opportunity to expedite our plans,”  noted Grathoss, not speaking but communing Telepathically in private - one of the new features of their gene generation was a refinement of ‘privacy’ in telepathic communication, a radically enhanced form of the nascent telepathic neural abilities of their distant Anzat ancestors.

“Only if the Outdated fail to handle it effectively, they still have Aethena’s support,” Olnerr cautioned

They walked in perfect unison through the vast hall that hid the mechanics of the Ecclesia’s Bio-ware supercomputer, the Psyche-Varas, the perfect integration of neural matter and machinery that exponentially expanded the knowledge and processing power of the holographic representation of Soron Varas that any Aethan could seek the wisdom and guidance of.

The closest thing to sacred ground the Aethans possessed the Psyche-Varas was always booked well in advance for consultations.

It was, essentially, every Aethans opportunity to meet their maker.

Grathoss replied to Olnerr comment with a simple telepathic negative ‘sigil’

“Aethena’s tacit acceptance is not active support,”

Neither Generation 29 could understand why Aethena had not taken control of the Program at her maturity, but then she was Generation 30 and undoubtedly superior in her methods to them in every respect - just as they as 29’s were superior to their ‘fellow Directors’ of lower Gene generations in every respect - stirring their burning desire to have them all replaced.

So far they were stymied by the Articles of Confluency, each of the Outdated directors, to  Grathoss irritation, had consistently passed the tests required for Deferment from Resolution, making him unable to legitimately eliminate them and harvest have what little neural matter would be of use integrated into the Bio-ware of the Ecclesia he now strode past.

It was an affront that the Technocracy should be led by any generations less than the apex, and, given there were only two generation 30’s, that meant the 29’s such as himself should fill the Directorate completely.

“Regardless it is her very success that has kept Anderis and the other Outdated in Power…” Olnerr added

“...you are correct though if they fail to achieve success worthy of the Technocracy in the slightest in reference to this crisis, you should have all the justification you need to have them Resolved.” 

Olnerr paused, indulging in a facial expression of a smirk

“My own Directorate is well placed to ensure their inferiority is made obvious.” he added

Olnerr despised his Directorate, his urgent desire to obtain any senior position had seen him apply for the first vacancy, little did he know how truly mind numbing Space Transit and System Exploitation was, managing the maintenance and logistics of ore haulers from the asteroids and inner planets they mined, ensuring the Solar Collector Kites stayed within optimal frequencies, sending work crews to repair damage after solar winds or out of system nova pulses caused tears in the collectors…

So unnecessary, after all it was only a matter of a few Gene Generations before Aethenginerring perfected Teleportation via Aether methods and rendered space transit via vehicle an archaic irrelevance.

Grathoss in a moment of dry humour flashed a mental image of Chrell Cev Chronrim, the Gene Generation 28 Director of Aetherenigneering arguing with Korlas Fir Onderant rather than furthering the Teleportation research and testing - a further example of petty Generation 28’s holding them back!

Olnerr might’ve sniggered but didn’t waste the cellular energy

“That reminds me, have your Actuaries determined how Dastur Len Kkost fell into a Protein recycler?” he asked with some humour

Grathoss brushed it away with mental image of the wind across the alps

“A waste of their time, Kkost failed to achieve any progress on Aephrodaea he is no great loss,”

“He was still a Director, albeit a 27,” Olnerr noted

“Let the lessers kill each other off in petty feuds, it saves my Actuaries the effort,”

The Actuaries of the Directorate of Apportionment were the Technocracies enforcers of the Articles of Confluency, and under Grathoss guidance had been ‘refreshed’ to include only Generation 29’s, as was fitting, to ensure the compliance of lesser generations.

It was an unfortunate necessity that, due to the Failures of project Aephrodaea and the system of Precedenture to enhance viability of Generation 29 embryo’s, let alone Generation 30, the whole population could not be ‘refreshed’. 

The Technocracy remained reliant on Generation 28’s and below to comprise the bulk of the workforce. 

But that was no excuse for the Outdated to hold Directorates.

“You still have them focused on Essea,” Olnerr surmised, Grathoss hated the Gen 23 woman presence more than any other.

“There are inconsistencies in her Directorates resource consumption, we are close to a break through…very close…there is something deeper I sense - something she and the other Outdated are hiding - but it remains just beyond my grasp…for now”

Both Grathoss and Olnerr were certain once leadership was fully Generation 29 all the handbrakes on progress, fertility, the specific and enhanced nutritional needs of Generation 30 that Agriculture struggled to provide, delays in upgrades to laboratory equipment and critical infrastructures, would be solved. 

How could it not be once the superior minds of 29’s were given total authority to push toward a Generation 30, or even higher, populace.

“And what of these Sith, do you think they pose a true threat?”  inquired Grathoss shifting the subject left he brood on Essea’s continued existence, already knowing the most likely answer of his generational ‘brother’.

“How could they? We are the scientifically perfected unions of Human, Miraluka, Lek’un and Anzat,”

Olnerr stretched out his hand creating simulacrums of each species with precision Aether lighting and Aether illusions in his palm, the figures merged and amplified in size, emphasizing their mastery of the innate Aether within them - a power barely one in a billion among other races possessed.

“They are unrefined precursor races,” he clenched hs fist sending tendrils of aether lighting scattering

“We will crush them with ease if they reach us, Aethena could turn a legion to dust 5 systems distant with a thought, even a Generation 25 could aether-teleport a bomb onto a vessel 1000km away, or render their pilots brain dead with a telepathic spike.”

“Agreed they are no threat, but if they are made to seem so…and the Outdated, unable to effectively comfort the other Members…”

Olnerr allowed a genuine smile of agreement, knowing it would not be returned, the Director of Apportionment never displayed any emotion,

“The crisis we need, it will not be wasted,”




Keeara Major was a disappointment.

The Tetan archives were clearly out of date, the local Tyrant ruled from a Citadel barely half the size of a E-Temen-Enki, the population was scattered and thin, the people weak and starving, the grain and raw material stores barely a quarter of what the Tetan’s had estimated.

It seemed he had come at the wrong time in the harvest cycle, the silos drained - and while that meant he would reap the next harvest once it came, it did little to feed the Armada today.

Yn took out his frustration at what would be a net loss in resources on the face of one of the gaudily attired Tyrants guards, pouding flesh and bone into rockrete before rising up to shoulder another over.

Catching a vibro blade in his right hand he yanked it from the wielder then punched forward with his left, laying the attacker low.

“Forward! Bring me the Tyrants head!”

They were moving up the ramps of the embarrassed lopsided fortress called the ‘Citadel’, his Scythes downing the frail Keearan’s over three at a time, his Swords looked bored with their opponents.


Even Impes, protected by Three Scythes, had lost interest, levitating a victim and slowly stripping flaps of flesh off with dark misty tendrils of the Force to use in her magicks.

 
The only effective resistance was in the warrens of the city below.  Half above and half underground the Cult of the Solemn - one of dozens attached to Yn’s war band - had run into trouble against local slumlords and their gangs. 

Yn hoped to recruit - or rather press gang and Rune Bind - a few thousand decent fighters from those that surrendered, as surely there was little of worth in the Citadel ahead.

Still an example had to be made. 

Every system of the so-called Grimnir Micro Agriworlds would be subjugated, pillaged and left with ‘loyal’ lieutenants in charge to shore up Yn’s supply chain on the advance deeper into the core.

Brutish, crude and lust driven though Yn he was, he knew the importance of doling out fiefs and keep his Darths from turning on him, and spreading the hungry armadas many mouths over as many plates as possible.

No planet could be fully subjugated in one invasion after all, so he would leave his Darths busy fortifying their worlds and extracting tribute to send to him, thus they had less time to brood on overthrowing him and provided a source of food and bodies. 

Stepping to the platform at the top Yn felt exhausted not from the intermittent fighting but having to haul his heavily armoured body up the ramp, the Annunaki Shell wearisome at times

The core of the Tyrant’s Cavaliers awaited him, practically armed in dura-steel apart from obnoxious feathered caps, positioned behind bulwarks and barricade las-arequebus at the ready.

With a growl Yn drew deeply on the Darkside, his eyes blazing from dull to luminous yellow with the raw hate, lust and desire that fueled him, his red saber crackled expectantly and batted aside without conscious effort the powered slug pellets they fired at him.


“FORWARD!” he yelled, morale rejuvenated by the thrill of the fight.

 
[/center](https://i.ibb.co/qYK1QVdq/C2-Grathoss.jpg) (https://ibb.co/60zsCLm9)[/center]

“...well perhaps we could meet later, the Atris Fountain Hetarion…” the smooth words of the handsome man sitting on her secretaries desk stopped as Essea Nal Ghrass rounded the corner and fixed Director Stinn Lek Grathoss with a stare.

His eyes blue as the finest core ice of the southern poles flicked to Essea only briefly before he finished

“...at around the Ninth arn,”

Staring up from her chair with dreamy eyes the Lldia Nel Tathos the Generation 25 secretary and personal assistant was helpless against the charms of the white leather clad generation 29 director leaning into her, his two Actuary colleagues ignored at the side of the room in their own white leather coats symbolizing the purity of the Directorate of Apportionment.

Regardless Essea would not let this phase her, not skipping a beat she place the tap pads on Lldia’s desk

“Have these run through by the 8th arn,” Essea noted

“Director Grathoss, to what do I owe the pleasure, I believe my next deferment examination is not for another half Orbital?”

“Another matter,” Grathoss stood with a sly smile to Lldia “might we discuss it in private”

“Of course,” Essea agreed heading for her office behind Lldia’s desk, the cool whites of the door contrasting with her ebony skin.

The highest office of the opened filled with light and colour, a vast panoramic view of the Valley of Aephrodaea, the prime experimental nature preserve for the most enhanced flora and fauna specimens.

Half an hour by vacuum tube from Alixandreaea, and nearly three from the Solemnis Ziva where Grathoss and his fichas were based, the Gen 29 director had not come here on a whim.


Grathoss was followed in by his fichas before the door closed, privacy did not seem to exclude his agents.

Taking a languid seat Grathoss began while Essea more primly settled.

“During a routine Actuarial inspection Garet Tol Falthos here…” Grathoss gestured to the silent actuary on his right

“...found a curious discrepancy regarding the Uranium-238-Tetrairon-Phospholipid Complex production. Although only required by our honoured pair of Generation 30s, it seems you are producing enough for 3 of them.” he leaned back, his coat falling away revealing the chiseled etch of his musculature beneath covered only by a thin black Voarach-silk shirt.

“Naturally I understood this wasn’t an error, after all it's only prudent to produce extra in case of spoilage…but not that wasn’t the curiosity…the issue seems to be on the input side - you’re staff are using uranium, lipid chins, recombinant machine hours, aeths and megawatts that should produce enough for four generation 30s,”

“There are inefficiencies in every process you understand Director,” Essea said flippantly
“It seems your Actuary has found nothing more than the universal inevitability of defects and failures in manufacturing processes - especially in such complex biochemistry.”

“That was my assumption as well,” he leaned forward slightly his eyes flashing with an unnatural obviously aether affected glow

“However this ‘defect’ commenced just over 22 orbitals ago, coinciding exactly with the suspension of Project Aethenaea, for 18 Orbitals prior to that all input and output ratios are as expected within margins of error, so Director, I thought you might wish to investigate what caused this loss of efficiency at such an exact date and recurring in every single production run since,”

Grathoss fichas glared at her accusingly while Grathoss himself maintained his affable mask 

Bastard has done some serious digging Essea might’ve cursed to herself had she been able, but a generation 23 she was very well aware the Gen 29’s opposite her could hear her thoughts as loudly as a gormin bull warning grunt echoing off the valley walls - and of course their thoughts were little more than whispers in a blizzard to her unless they chose to share.

“Thank you for bringing this to my attention Grathoss, I will have it looked into immediately, indeed I will assign my Assistant Lldia and order full Rotational overtime for all relevant staff this very day to ensure it is addressed,”

If losing his so recently arrange Precedenture date bothered Grathoss he didn’t show it,

“If there is nothing else I will not delay you any longer Director,” Essea gently dismissed..

With a winning grin Grathoss left, followed by his Fichas.

As soon as he was gone Essea sat.

Sat dead still.

And did nothing.

For hours.

Grathoss was close, perhaps closer than even he knew. 

Essea needed to warn those who would feel the sting of a Resolution Dagger if he found what he was looking for.

But that was exactly what Grathoss wanted, that was why he had come here, to make her act in haste, and follow where she led.

And so acting was the one thing she must not do, no matter the risks, she had to trust the others could protect themselves.

The 9th arn was approaching.

Essea issued the overtime orders.

Lldia was still at her desk working, Essea could sense her frustration in the aether bubbling just beyond the door.

Frell it, he can have this one Essea resolved, she conceded this battle, hoping it would mean Grathoss remained oblivious to the war he was oblivious of even as he had been part of it since he was germinated.

Placing her index finger on the link orb to Lldia 

“Just go Lldia,” she permitted telepathically.  The glee in the young woman burst into the Aether like the sun as the real one set across the valley. 

Lldia was gone in mere second to meet her Gen 29 lover for the night.

“The things I do for that girl,” Essea vented out loud, not meaning Lldia in the slightest.


The ship began to shudder violently, a metallic shriek tearing through the hull as they clipped the atmosphere, trailing a broken Caravel in a death-spiral. Chunks of it – twisted metal, vaporized flesh – ripped away, incinerating in the heat, grinding and sparking against the upper air.

The hold became a furnace, reaching a temperature that seared the skin of the Generation 25s, before their vessel finally tore free from the flaming debris, plummeting towards the coordinates Aethena and the Precogs had decreed.

Below, the industrial district was a shattered graveyard. Acrid smoke stung the nostrils, rising in greasy plumes from skeletal infrastructure. Cooling towers lay like mournful, slain leviathans, casting long, broken shadows through a choking pall of dust and grit that clung to the stagnant air.

Thousands—no, tens of thousands—of warriors clashed below, a mindless tide of crude, rusted blades, the occasional sputtering vibro-weapon, and clunky arquebuses more likely to explode than find their mark.

The hold doors ripped open with a sudden hiss, bathing the red-lit interior in diffuse, choking grey light and swirling dust. The Guardians, a blur of practiced motion, slapped off their restraint harnesses, the belts retracting with a harsh whirr. Styx Rifles snapped into firing positions.

Eileithyia, at the far end, straightened with a sharp, internal protest. Her misaligned back, a constant ache, screamed from the hours of forced stillness, a discomfort none of her perfected Aethan comrades would ever know. The dust, thick as a shroud, promised easy concealment.

The Guardians catapulted into the inferno below, a blaze of crimson rifle fire erupting as they hit the ground. From above, dozens of Sith thralls collapsed, limbs flailing, consumed by the precise Virdilith blasts. The first team carved out a drop zone, while the second and third fanned out, but the dust-choked air vomited forth endless waves of thralls, driven by the crack of their masters' lashes.

The Aethans moved with merciless precision, cutting down the horde, their numbers swelling to 120 Guardians within minutes.

They tore through the rear lines of the Sith thralls, cloaked in the ever-deepening red dust, their efficiency chilling.

Eileithyia kept to the very rear, a phantom limb of destruction, thinning the enemy with a chilling detachment. The only limitation to their slaughter was the depleting charge packs of their Styx Rifles, each Virdilith charge holding 500 shots. In barely moments, she had fired 176, each a perfect kill.

Founder, how these Outsiders must breed, she mused, utterly indifferent to the lives she ended so swiftly.

"Switch to melee!" Guardian-Alpha Ahmn's telepathic command snapped through the groupmind, a cold recognition of their depleting ammunition.

In disciplined groups of five, covered by their fellows, the Guardians holstered their rifles. Astrapí Swords flashed into existence, Noctilith blades crackling as a surge of Aether activated their aethersink charges, lightning flowing across the edges. They sliced effortlessly through the makeshift armor and flayed skins, aerial recon feeding precise telepathic observations to avoid traps and dead ends.

Their advance was a surgical strike, cutting deep into the heart of the invaders' push, the local 'Tyrant's' forces surging forward with renewed hope.

All that was required was to sustain the slaughter, to bleed the invaders' momentum until they broke.

And what a slaughter it was.

Eileithyia broke the creatures by the dozen, then by the score.

They were so slow, so pathetically weak.

She abandoned her blade for a moment, simply smashing them with her fists, heard the distant hum of amusement among her squad as outsider bones and bodies shattered like dried clay under Aethan strength and speed.

Perhaps Purgatio Astra was closer than they imagined.

Had they truly come so far since the founding that these beings were such chaff?

"Primary Objective Accomplished! Switch to secondary!" The Guardian leader's triumphant thought reverberated, and the twelve squads of ten wheeled through the carnage, shifting their attack to the invaders' main lines, a deeper bleed.

More mindless thralls surged forward, unkempt, barely clothed. Occasionally, a larger being with a whip or shock probe drove them on – healthier, better fed, but they too fell. Eileithyia’s blade and Phirk armour dripped with foul gore as she gazed into the blank eyes of her latest kill. Crude tattoos, never fully healed, ruddy around the ink, stared back at her from the dust-caked face.

It astonished her how effortless it was. She had never seen an Outsider before...now, within less than seven standard minutes, she had killed 482 of them. Behind her, a plain of corpses. She didn’t even need to think; the knowledge, the raw instinct for slaughter was built into her genome. She simply followed her body's natural inclinations. She felt neither elation nor pity; it was so very...mundane.

The Outsiders were so hideous, their faces so asymmetrical, skin so dark and pocked with scars and blemishes. For offenses against aesthetics alone they deserved death. It was only a shame their biomass could not be fed into a protein recycler to get some use out of them.

That is what the Technocracy thinks of me.

The thought, unbidden but icy in her skull, brought something a lesser gene generation might have experienced as pure, raw empathy to her mind for the wretched corpse before her. But the Groupmind, a sudden, forceful wave of cold disapproval, instantly stamped out the minor distraction to Purgation before it could blossom into true questioning.

The thralls thinned. The Aethans broke into a full run, 60 kmph, towards the colossal silos and foundries ahead, utterly confident they would annihilate the entire invader force in this sector.

Leaping over a fallen gantry, Guardian Ahmn suddenly spun. His body twisted. His head flew forward—away from his neck. Dark red blood gushed in a torrent as his heart kept beating, a grisly fountain. His body tumbled to the ground, twitching.

A red, glowing beam of energy, attached to a metal handle, spun, blurred, and snapped back into a thick, spiked, armored hand. The blood and dust parted like a veil, revealing an enormous warrior in grotesque, heavy armor with massive horns. He was the owner of the telekinetically thrown energy blade that had inflicted the first Aethan loss.

Around the monster-sized warrior stood other well-armored creatures, all wielding glowing blades, wicked whips, cruel pikes, or vicious tridents. Their armor was a chaotic mix of jagged spikes, unsettling talismans, bleached skulls, and disturbing fetishes.

And all around them... the Aether burned with the fury of Tartarus itself.

 


Jol stood ready, the Tremor Sword, a sacred gift from his Lord on Teta, had already tasted a dozen lives he was certain of, twice as many he was not. The Swords formed a disciplined line, a living wall ahead of the Cults, the Dark Preceptors' guttural chants echoing around them. The Grey-Armors, momentarily stunned by the beheading of their leader, paused.

These Grey-Armors had materialized from nowhere, a storm of efficiency, utterly obliterating the Cult of the Fang and half the Zealots of Ruin. Behind them, lay a wasteland of dead to make any true Dark Lord proud. Kallū—the mad holy men among the cults and zealots—staggered among the fallen, shouting, shaking, and caressing the mutilated bodies. One Grey-Armored warrior, with chilling indifference, idly fired a shot, felling a Kallū who strayed too close.

Jol did not know what these warriors were, where they had come from, or why, but it was horrifyingly clear they were nothing like the common Cavaliers and Gang-Knifers they had encountered so far on Keeara.

The Swords strode forward, slowly at first, led by Darth Xylos, one of Lord Yn’s twenty-three Blood-Bound Darths.

The already enormous Chagrian was made mountain-like by his Annunaki Shell, featuring glistening, serrated horns that complemented his species' natural growths. Xylos held his blade aloft, bidding his Swords and the cults to pause.

The brief shock of the Grey-Armored beings quickly wore off, and their rifles spat fire once more. A shot ricocheted violently off Xylos's Annunaki plate. The Darth lowered his blade, a growl rumbling deep in his chest, then roared his order: "Advance!"

Jol screamed, a feral cry of pure bloodlust, and charged with his brethren.


Like an asteroid of Noctilith smashing into a moon of mere iron, the true Sith warriors tore through the Aethans, sending them reeling, their perfectly engineered bodies thrown like rag-dolls.

All around them, the innumerable hordes poured in, their crude Gore Hooks and Humababa Piercers seeking the delicate joints in Aethan Aegis Weave.

The Guardians killed many with disciplined fire—but there were so many more, a relentless, suffocating tide.

Their Styx rifles, so potent against the thralls, took a dozen precious shots to down those in genuine Sith armor, instead of razor-wire and flayed skin.

These Sith were vicious veterans, forged by a lifetime of ceaseless battle, each having slain former Swords to claim their place, constantly killing off rivals to unseat them. These were the true core of any Sith army, not the masses of starving slaves hurled to build piles of bodies.

Instantly, the battle turned into a bloody rout for the Aethans.

The Guardians, their vaunted precision failing, quickly resorted to telekinetic shoves and lightning blasts. But the Sith armor, encrusted with the cursed blood of Dark Side foes, deflected the Aether attacks with contemptuous ease, almost seeming to drink the energy. Experience-honed skills and Dark Side-enhanced reflexes allowed the Sith to dance around Aethan blades and rifle shots, their crackling sabers boring through Aegis weave into gene-crafted organs.

Barely had they engaged, and two scores of Aethans were cut down. Xylos alone took three more Guardians in as many brutal moments.

Even those they felled refused to stay down. One Sith, an Astrapí Sword still buried in his gut, stood with a grunt of effort, tendrils of crimson Life Drain siphoning energy from half-dead Aethans nearby, feeding his grotesque dark regeneration.

Eileithyia stared, her mind reeling with incomprehension, at the seeming blasphemy: how could such guttural-minded creatures, whose thoughts she could hear were of nothing but blood, loot, and lust, slay the carefully forged progeny of the Technocracy?

A crimson blade of pure, crackling energy snapped her momentary pause, forcing her to block the blow. The sheer, brute strength behind it crumpled her to her knees, the ground cracking beneath her. A thick, spiked knee shot upward, smashing into her breastplate. The Phirk armor took the brunt, but the impact still sent her skidding violently across the rubble. She barely rolled, the energy blade shrieking past her face, carving a deep, smoking trench into the ground where her head had been.

By instinct more than training, she spat a desperate burst of lighting into the creature's face. It took the blue flare on its blade, then, with a disturbing rumble, lowered its guard, seemingly indulging in the dark, destructive power, feeding on it even.

Her left hand, its six fingers trembling uncontrollably on her sword grip, slashed ineffectually at the Sith Sword's legs, the blackstone glancing off. She staggered back further and further, a cold dread seeping into her core. She regretted not pushing herself as hard as Mentor had insisted, now facing what seemed to be her imminent, ignoble death.


The Sith Sword, a Zeltron whose eyes burned with feral malice, hacked away with frustrated fury, his desire to kill her only thwarted by her desperate speed. Unaware of her surroundings, she backed herself into a corner. The Sword grunted, a sound of grim satisfaction, and drove his blade deep into her hip.

She screamed—a raw, high-pitched shriek, not of pain, for no Aethan could feel pain in the conventional sense, but of utter astonishment, of violated perfection. Her genecrafted voice, piercingly high, struck the Zeltron Sith's ear drums, making him recoil. His mailed fist, covered in jagged spikes, clamped over her helm and squeezed, shattering the Phirk like brittle glass.

A witch? was his guttural thought as he saw half her face, the thought only making him squeeze harder. Break the jaw so she can’t curse me! was his subconscious goal, a primal urge.

The hand squeezed and cracked her teeth inward into her mouth. Blood sloshed, hot and sickening, filling her mouth, then began to run down her throat. Disgusted but unable to spit, she was forced to swallow her own broken teeth, a bitter, iron taste.

Lord Yn will reward me richly for a live Witch! He drew back his saber, the crimson blade humming, ready to slice off her legs; they weren’t necessary to deliver her to his Lord after all.

As he raised his saber for the dismembering blow, Eileithyia, ignoring the burning agony in her hip and the shattered ruin of her jaw, gathered enough of herself to fight back. She focused her telekinetic power, condensing it into a needle-sharp point of pure force, and drove it straight between his eyes.

The concentration of power shattered the Runic defenses etched into his armor, slicing directly into his brain matter.


His body seized in a violent spasm, and she heard his last, confused, jumbled thoughts as neurons disconnected, sparking in frayed, random patterns before he dropped, a lifeless mass.

The steel grip on her mouth released. Eileithyia gagged, vomiting out her teeth, copious blood, and part of her tongue onto the ground.

Then, with a desperate, guttural gasp, she scrambled forward, crawling toward the retreating, scattered remnants of her squad, where the groupmind was directing a full rout.


(https://i.ibb.co/s9Br7ddq/C2-Rarn.jpg) (https://ibb.co/WvT1C44f)


The rune on Jol’s chest burned with an ecstatic heat, his body shivering in anticipation. He felt in his marrow: the time to truly serve his Lord had come.

Ahead, the Grey-Armors were fleeing in rout, or rather, what few remained alive. Darth Xylos, a gargantuan figure of conquest, shredded one more in half with his bare hands before letting out a guttural bellow of triumph that vibrated through Jol's very bones.

Something stirred deep within Jol, a powerful, undeniable pull. The Dark was guiding him...and ahead was his Destiny—standing atop a pile of mangled Cutlists of the Fang, their ghoul-skins shredded by blade and bullet—was one Grey-Armored warrior, clearly covering the others' escape behind the collapsed and burning industrial buildings.

Gen 25 Rarn Sel Mathos would not allow any more Aethan blood to be spilled. He would not allow Outsider filth to imperil Genesis Deus.

He would give his all for the Founders Vision, drawing on the pure image of Aethena in his mind to sustain him against the obscene horror of the non-Aethans around him.

"Aethani Dominabutir Astris!" he bellowed, swinging his Astrapí Sword, crackling with lightning, through the Reaver Guard battle plate of a Sith Sword. He then shot three Noctilith rounds into the face of another with his Adamas Pistol, pulverizing bone and skull.

"Aethani Dominabutir Mortis!" he roared, pouring Aether lightning to near-incinerate a handful of Zealots, their Ghoul-skins catching fire before they could reach him.

Despite his bloody urges, Jol circled his prey, the Grey-Armored killer, as more Swords stepped forward.

Darth Xylos, a dark mountain of flesh and plate, stomped the skull of another Aethan into the muddy, waste-laden ground nearby.

Jol felt his Rune burn deeper, a white-hot coal in his flesh, as his chance drew closer. He stalked through the throng, pushing past comrades, heading directly for the Grey-Armored being who cut them down by the score.

Rarn was on borrowed time. He had taken numerous hits, even as he culled the enemy, and the vast, horned Sith lord would certainly finish him.

But his task was nearly done; the cloaked Phaethon Glider, carrying the other survivors, was preparing for escape.

Another of the Swords approached. Their blades clashed, a sparking shower of lethal intent. Rarn fired his last bullet into the Sith's chest, then shouldered him over. Inadvertently, a spike on the Sith's Reaver Guard armor stabbed deep into Rarn's leg joint, a searing pain.

With a guttural growl, Rarn kicked out nonetheless to put the Sword down, the spiked warrior resisting as Rarn spun his blade to impale him…

Until a blade emerged from his own chest even as he stabbed the Sword.

Jol, a maniacal gleam in his eye, pushed the Tremor Sword, gifted on Teta by his Dominar, deep into the Grey-armor's back and twisted.

Rarn’s sword, stuck in the dying body beneath him, was useless. He spun to confront his new attacker.

"Aethani Dominabutir Vita!" he bellowed, pouring his last reserves of power into a punch. His fist connected with the tall Chalactan's chest, sending Jol crashing to the ground with a sickening crunch.

Excruciating pain ripped through Jol. His ghoul-skin was tattered, the scourge vines of those fallen before him puncturing his back in dozens of places. His breath hitched, a ragged gasp for air.

But his faith was true.

"YN CHA!" Jol bellowed, a raw, defiant roar, rising up, his hand outstretched, scrambling to grab the nearest weapon.

Rarn, seeing the sub-being still alive, lunged forward for the final, decisive blow.

But in that instant, Jol’s faith, his unconscious will, and a raw surge of Dark Side power drew a saber from the recently fallen Sith Sword directly to his hand. Still ignited, it hissed through the air in a brutal arc, severing Rarn's head from his shoulders in a hissing spray of evaporated blood and flash-cauterized tissue.

The Grey-Armored body flopped, convulsing grotesquely on the pile of bodies it had created.

Jol Gotika stood, breathing heavily, blood streaking his face, holding a red saber in one hand, and an enemy's head, still dripping, in the other.

Darth Xylos strode toward him, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his monstrous face, as behind them, the distant roar of a vessel signaled the escape of the remaining Grey-Armors.

"It seems you have some worth, wretch," boomed Xylos, his voice filled with a chilling approval, as Jol, his body shaking with a mix of pain and triumph, gave silent thanks to his Dominar for his success.

Eileithyia is one of the most interesting characters in the Forumverse: a living contradiction, she is ironically the most human of the Aethans, able to comprehend that the Technocracy and its populace are NOT the perfect beings that they are still striving to achieve.  Another irony, and this is a monumental one, is that in pursuit of Genesis Deus, the Technocracy (or more specifically those in charge) have made themselves partially blind to anything NOT given proper consideration for the Plan (but more about that in a minute).

Eileithyia is the most precise example of the Technocracy's own dogma and weaknesses: without her Glamors, she would not even be given proper Resolution but rather thrown immediately into the protein recyclers for the literal and figurative benefit(s) of society (one wonders how it is she just happened to have escaped such).  And yet, she is the best Survivor within the Technocracy itself: able to at least question the hubris of Soron Varas and his Plan while considering that which is, again to the Aethans, anathema.  Oh, she is still a product of her circumstances--just look at her utter contempt for the Sith Zealots she killed by the score--BUT can at least consider that the Technocracy is not always RIGHT.

Point of fact, this is no longer academic to Eileithyia after she joins the Guardians attacking Keeara Major: while the beginning skirmishes are most certainly Aethan victories, the battle becomes a rout favoring the Sith as hubris is shortly buried beneath thousands Zealot bodies, their faith in Lord Yn far greater than their fear of the Guardians.  Where this leaves Eileithyia is left uncertain...

However, there are really two fronts: the first and obviously being against the Sith but also (and arguably more important) the tribalism that has become inherent within the Technocracy itself, Gene Generation more than evidence of Progress but now a class stratification where those NOT of your own Generation have been determined to be "The Other."  I'm reminded of an Aesop that ends in the lesson that there is a fine line between confidence/ability vs. arrogance/conceit.  But what else could have happened when your progenitor is Soron Varas, your program is Genesis Deus, and your future is Astro Purgio?

I think that it's A LOT that our "Current Day" Guardians e.g. Valens, Jarys, Mili, Kiraea, et al. are--while subscribing to Aethan superiority do not make the same mistakes as their ancestors in that they will gather as much intel as possible before any military engagement to ensure the maximum chance for success.  Then again, by that time they've experienced so much more tragedy than I believe the Aethans of the Technocracy circa Draggulch Period ever had prior to the Devastation.

And Lord Yn is coming...

Meta-note: Engrossing and outstanding storytelling LSG.  I am amazed at how incredible (and improved!) your visuals are with the attendant pics (and as I've said before: I'm a stickler for planetary/personnel bios as well as military resources/elements  :)

Special thanks to LSG for giving life to Jol!  The next chapter of "Sins" canNOT come fast enough  :D

“Damaged beyond repair…” the voice was muffled not only by the roaring engines of the Phaethon Glider, but a screeching drone of concussion echoing off the inside of her skull.

“Repair possible. Stabilise…”

Repair…damage…they never say injury or wound… her slowly coalescing thoughts solidified.

Cool air stung her face as the cloying humid helmet was removed

“Egh…a lot of damage to this one…”

A rough finger lifted up her right eye lid, then the left as more hands gripped her body tearing with efficiency the damaged phirk plating and the blood stained body glove.

“What kind of damage is that…” a second voice said

“That wasn’t incurred in the battle…” the first said, their internal thoughts buzzing with confusion.

“Damaged, but it was already defective! How is that possible…”

Eileithyia snapped fully to attention, a blinding surge of focus-inducing hormone flooding her brain.

Her body tensed, muscles locking, as she met the utterly expressionless faces of the two Guardians.

Their thoughts, a jumbled knot of confusion and intellectual revulsion, parsed the obvious Sith damage but recoiled from the incomprehensible imperfection revealed by her exposed natural form.

Gripping their minds like brittle ceramic, she brutally slashed into the short-term cache of their memories, ripping them free with a desperate mental howl she swallowed deep within herself.

Simultaneously, she projected her well-practiced glamour, manifesting the image of an average Generation 28 woman, flawless and whole.

The Guardians mind quickly reset from the Aetheric Cognitive Override, too well designed to allow a complete break in the multiple streams of consciousness they were capable of.

A few quick blinks and they reassessed her now illusion covered form.

“No Obvious Damage, stable,” the second said before they swiftly moved to the next of the crumpled and crushed forms that populated the hold of the juddering transport.

With a gasp that was more a ragged wheeze, Eileithyia dropped back. She was far from 'undamaged'.

Her mouth was a bloody wreck, a loose shard of bone clicking against a shattered tooth.

Several saber burns, the worst in her waist, radiated a dull 'red' agony beneath the illusory perfection.

Her glamour shimmered, holding steady only through sheer, bone-deep will and the utter certainty that her own People would end her with less mercy than the Sith if they saw her true face.

Scrambling, her hands fumbled at the small lock-pouches on the 'Damaged beyond repair' Guardian beside her.

She tore free Kolto patches, pressing them to her wounds, and began Aetheric Somatic Reassembly - what their ancestors had called ‘Force healing and Shatterpoint repair - the burning effort of maintaining her illusion a constant secondary torment.

It was a long, exhausting, and deeply humiliating trip back to Aethas, the vague 'red' sensation of damage, a constant throb, overshadowed only by the psychic effort of maintaining her lie.

Each tremor of the ship dislodged her glamor ever so slightly forcing a readjustment, a reminder of her shattered state and the perfection she was forced to project.
 



“Dominar,” his ‘loyal’ Blood-thrall Scythe bent before him, and beside him the hunched robed figure of the Dark Preceptor of one of the myriad Knife or Thorn Cults that made up his warbands.

Lord Yn looked casually over the handful of cultists in ghoul-skin and scourge-vine behind him, all bloodied, all injured, but all burning with intense pride at their victory and the ‘honour’ of being brought before him.

“These seven have proven themselves this day against those…things…with your permission I will have them elevated to Sigil Thralls, Swords in your service,”

Adopting his ‘Lords Face’ Yn looked over the seven, they looked a poor bunch, but he had taken losses from his personal Sigil thralls from the soldiers Impes was even now toying with.

“If they survive the Devotions that is,” Yn sneered, adopting a coarse tone that he had learned the Knife-Cults were enamoured of.

“Only the Strong Serve!” the Dark Preceptor intoned bowing so deep that given his already hunched figure Yn imagined his nose must be touching the mud.

“Give your Thanks to the Lord Dominar for the privilege of attempting the Devotion!” the Preceptor demanded striking the nearest prospect with a barbed staff.

“Our Souls for this Honour!” the seven bellowed, among them tall a Chalactan whom Yn idly imagined being the first shot in the head by some sniper, before Yn dismissively turned and headed toward his Witch.

“They were not native, strong but strangely untested,” Darth Xylos said, joining Yn as they approached Impes, the mountainous Chagrian sporting three fresh heads hanging from his belt.

“Destroyed nonetheless,” Yn noted as he approached his Witch. 

Impes finger drew unnerving symbols in the muddy slop that was the mingled dust and blood from the battle. 

Lord Yn knew they were of some arcane import but would prefer not to know, as with the Preceptor he kept himself blissfully aloof of the shamanism and rituals of the cults and witches…

Except those that pertained to binding his servants, extending his life and protecting his body - the ratting bone charms of the disloyal on his belt that fed their lingering essences to him testament to all three. 

He approached the squatting Darth Impes through the milling throngs of Warriors stripping bodies and taking slaves. Her dreadlocked hair hanging loose, her wiry thin body clad in simple dark robes moldy with old blood swaying slightly with a chant.

Without warning she darted up and scuttled over to a fallen body, turning the Sith Sword over. 

Lord Yn jogged a little to catch up. His left leg fell strangely from a wound during his successful taking of the Tyrant's Citadel. His arm was bandaged tightly, the blood flow just stemmed from a rusty cut – the least cost of this victory.

He had lost more thralls than anticipated on his eastern flank, and though ultimately successful, it would take time to raid nearby settlements to make up the numbers.

“Here…” she pointed at the fallen Sword, there were no obvious marks on his body, little meaningful fresh damage to his armor, not that one could often tell given the ramshackle nature of much of their kit.

“...A Witch killed this one…no physical weapon - a blade to the Mind…curious…” Impes once more dipped her fingers to the blood stained ground, dipping them into a small wet patch then raising her fingers to taste.

“Different from the others…”

“What others?” Yn asked, Impes pointed a finger ahead where slaves were piling bodies clad in gray armor of some kind unfamiliar to him, different to anything else they had encountered since entering the deep core, and certainly of a far different make to the inelegant panel beaten dura-steel slabs the Keearan’s.

He stalked over, the slaves uncertain, some bowing and retreating at his approach, others deciding to continue with their duties. 

Pushing some aside he grabbed one of the bodies, turning it over, looking for any symbols on the armour, finding nothing but a Triquetra inlaid in a red material that had a dull humm in the Force.

“I do not recognise this Symbol,”

“It is Ancient - yet of neither Sith Darth nor Jedi ‘Lord’,” Impes confirmed, her use of the word ‘Lord’ never sincere. She took another taste of the delicious blood of the Strangers, rich with power as if every one of them was born to the Force.

These bodies would fuel incredible Spells and Alchemy, strengthening her warband.

She smiled cruelly at the irony, these Strangers had sought to delay her progress, instead they had strengthened their hand further.

“Then who are they?” Yn asked, strong as the Warlord was, he was blind to the subtleties of the Force, for which he relied on Impes, a relationship of mutual benefit as he supplied the raw strength she lacked.

“What are they,” she replied  “Is a better question,”


****All credit to theDutchman for compiling this brilliant scene that adds so much depth to the Sith of the era****



"Adherent Jol Gotika, present yourself before your Lord and Dominar, Darth Yn!" The harsh, guttural voice of the Dark Preceptor spat the pronouncement, his bass tones reverberating throughout the cathedral's vast hollows, located in the very heart of the E-Temmen-Anki Dreadnought on an upper deck, the countless stars dotted the transparasteel ceiling grayling with cold disdain for the weak and unworth, but burning with opportunity for those who proved themselve.. 

All around the tall Chalactan, fellow Adherents, Initiates, and Acolytes were taking and receiving their Vows, each hopeful in their role as a newly-minted Sigil Thrall. 

Like Jol, they all had dreams of power, lust, avarice, and passions realized, and likewise all had been recommended for their successes on the battlefield, nominated by Preceptor, Rab Saqu, and in Jols case Darth Xylos himself.

As Jol stepped forward, his gaze was fixed upon the highest dais in the chamber, his Lord and Dominar casting his gaze amongst those who would be his Thralls.  Hopefully.

What Yn saw was not unlike an enormous, undulating organism: alive, hungry, and feral.  Like every single would-be Thrall, Jol was completely naked, his long limbs covered in scars and homemade tattoos. 

Thankfully, they would not interfere with the process.

Stopping in front of the Dark Preceptor, Jol looked down at the shorter hunched human, his face impassive yet his eyes burned with fervor.  Taking a knee, he placed his left hand upon the ancient, raised durasteel plinth in a gesture of fealty and supplication.  The cool floor stood as a strict contrast to the heat in the room, beaded sweat rolling down Jol's back and forehead.

And the Ritual had not even yet begun...

"Will you swear heart, mind, and soul to servitude to your Lord and Dominar, Darth Yn?" The Dark Preceptor queried, the eyeless sockets of his face made all the more sepulchral in the shadows of starlight.  Lightly poised above Jol's hand resting on the plinth, the Dark Preceptor's slim blade was motionless.  Until the first syllable left Jol's mouth.

"May final Death await my transgressions should I fail." He swore quietly as the black blade stabbed into the back of his hand, the razor-sharp edge splitting the skin, muscle, and tissue as easily as if it were gossamer.  With each spoken word, the blade traced the practiced Rune into Jol's hand, blood welling up from the deep lacerations.

"Will you swear heart, mind, and soul to sacrifice yourself for nothing more or less than for your Lord and Dominar, Darth Yn?" The Dark Preceptor's words sounded as if dried bones were being ground underfoot.  Meanwhile his blade did not so much as pause.

"May final Death await my cravenness should I fail." Jol hissed through gritted teeth, the agonizing pain lancing through his hand, up his arm, and deep into his heart as the Malacia wrapped itself around the beating organ.

"Will you swear heart, mind, and soul to annihilate that which displeases your Lord and Dominar, Darth Yn?" The Dark Preceptor's steady hands began the final strokes of the Rune.

Throughout the crowded cathedral, Jol heard screams erupt around him as those would-be Thralls stalled in their Devotions, the Malacia-infused blades utterly destroying those whose souls were unworthy. 

A human woman who had pledged the First and Second Devotions hesitated at the Third, her full-throated agonized shrieking tearing from her lungs as she collapsed, smoke rising from her eyes, ears, and mouth.

Darth Yn had no use for the weak, the pathetic, or the insipid.

"May final Death expose my mortality should I fail." The very last word coinciding with the final cut of the Darth Preceptor's blade, the newly completed Sigil suddenly glowing a deep crimson through the flowing blood staining Jol's hand, wrist, and arm, the viscous liquid infusing with the dried blood of countless would-be Thralls that blackened the plinth.

Like a second skin settling upon him, Jol felt the Sigil take effect upon him, a "tightness" squeezing his body permeating his entire skin.  Breathing raggedly, the pain of the Malacia slowly abated giving way to a throbbing inner strength pulsing from his heart, each beat giving new sustenance for a renewed body.

The body of a Sigil Thrall.

"Arise not as Adherent, but as Sword and Thrall of your Lord and Dominar, Darth Yn." The Dark Preceptor's voice had an undercurrent of pride or so Jol thought he heard.

Incredibly, Jol found that he did not have to use his hand to push himself up from the plinth. 

Instead, the unsteady legs that he'd bent the knee on were strengthened by his Devotions.  From the corner of his eyes, Jol saw his fellow Ad...Swords, staring up towards the dais, one and all focused upon one man.

Their Lord and Dominar, Darth Yn.


Bodies of the Grey-Armours lay around her, flayed and stripped bare, the Skin-jobber stooped over them in his tatty robes, weighed under by his vial and crusty tool filled pack, inspecting them his one good eye behind a clicking multi-lense inspector goggles.

The Skin-Jobber, the closest to a physician lord Yn had been able to obtain, his experience largely in running a cut price clinic in the slums of Denon for gangers, had measured them exactingly and found every woman was 1.75 cm tall, every man 181, and each weighed 252 and 304 kilo’s respectively with variances barely a millimeter or a few grams.

They had also been attired in enormously dense armour, impossible for any Sith to wear for prolonged periods, and carried equally weighty weapons.  Darth Xylos had taken most of that, recognising it mostly as a valuable mineral called ‘phrik’.

Impes straddled one of the men's bodies, digging her bone-knife in through hardy skin on the neck, soon feeling the resistance of bones that overlapped like armor plates across their entire body, the chest and back, and a complex web of tendons and ligaments beneath. 

These ‘plates’ were in lieu of a rib cage, the Skin-jobber informed her in his raspy world weary voice, this was proof they did not breathe and likely didn’t rely on oxygen in the same way as most humanoids did. 

She drew her knife down to the open chest, poking about the glossy wet organs beneath, most of which she only vaguely recognised as equivalent to human ones. 

They seemed to have three lungs, smaller than human ones, and a twelve chambered heart, the one active one they found seemed to gently squeeze to maintain a constant pressure rather than pumping in heavy throbs. 

“Nothing…nothing like it…” the Skin-Jobber repeated, holding a blocky geiger counter over the body that crackled and popped

“Radioactive blood and internal fluids…we shouldn’t stay near them long…”

He grasped a set of tongs in the ‘stomach’ equivalent of the woman he was dissecting and found them bubbling and corroding when he pulled them out.

“Can digest metals…Nothing like it,”

Impes worked her bone knife on the many arteries around the ‘heart’, it was an effort to free it from its labyrinth of rubbery connections.

“They look humanoid though,” she noted, her voice and the fleshy slosh and burble of organs the only sound in the otherwise empty ‘med bay’, that was little more than a ‘pre-morgue’ of rusted gurneys and fluid stained ferrocrete floors aboard Yn’s command ship.

“They might have been once…but this is beyond anything evolution could do,”

At that Impes snapped up, her face and chest covered in spatters of the grey-armours thick near black blood.

“What do you mean?”

“Tolerance and adaptation to radiation heavy environments is common enough in humanoid species, but this…this is design…not just cloning or gene-forging, this is…ach I don’t have the training or tools to understand this…”

It was a frequent complaint he had ‘neither the training nor tools’ to save various Swords or Scythe from their wounds, usually an accurate assessment, Yn and his ilk had little sympathy for those who could not repair themselves with the Darkside alone, though the Darkness never knit cleanly.

She rolled the heavy heart in her hands, sniffing it, then licking some of the dried blood, it was rich with an animalistic umami beneath a crisp faux cultured sugar and….

She quickly spat it out - full of immune cells that were reactive to the Force - and knew she was ‘foreign material’ to be destroyed. 

She would need to brew this carefully before giving it to the Swords to imbibe before battle, but was certain it would provide a furious strength to them…yet..a bitter after taste stayed in her mouth and filled her dark senses.

She knew that taste - sorcery, Sith Sorcery - at least in part.


“You might not understand…” she replied to the old slave,
“...but I may,”

Through multiple external bio-incineration screens the one remaining Phaethon Glider of the three deployed finally passed into the Sequestration Dome and onto the Quarantine pad, two kilometers from the fortress proper; unused for Orbitals now a hub of activity.

Guardians in Containment suits stood ready with handheld incinerator pistols to purge any Outsider bio-matter, to be followed by a wash down of Heterolysis Catalysers to break down the ashes into base element fragments.

No filthy impure Outsier taint could be allowed to jeopardize Genesis Deus

Observing from the control room of the Quarantine pads aero-traffic control tower, Director Grathoss was satisfied with the Sequestration measures, even as he mused on the failings of the mission itself.  

“Which Gene Generations were they?” was the first question out of Grathoss mouth as the Bounce tube doors opened and Guardian Primus Kesits stepped out, circling around the attendants at the Hexagonal workstations in the middle of the control room toward his fellow Director.

“A mixture of Generation 25 through 28 as one would expect,” Kesitis answered cautiously, the two mens omni-lenses effortlessly switching in their eyes to zoom in on the disembarkation process below, even if behind the blue filter of the Sequestration shield.

They were a sorry sight, all damaged it seemed, Grathoss briefly focused on one particular woman, whose mouth was dripping blood and hip obviously sliced into - no Gen 29 would allow themselves to be so brutalised by an Outsider.

“The commander in charge?” Grathoss asked, putting his hands no chalantly in his pockets, his white leather coat opening to display the Resolution Dagger at his side so obviously Kestis could not fail to notice the implication.

“Generation 28,” the Guardian Primus answered evenly

“I will recommend to the High Director all military operations be overseen by a Generation 29, in the future, to avoid such an unfortunate incident recurring,” Grathoss went on, the implication for the Gen 26 Kestis even more obvious.

Whether Kestis would reply or not would never be known as the Bounce tube doors opened once more, this time carrying the High Director himself, and behind him Valence in his Noctilith armour, helmet under his arm.

Unlike Aethena, the male Generation 30 had no stirring or beguiling presence.

While as secretive and unknowable as his sister, Valence - named for the chemical bonding mechanism of electrons based on the intent he might ‘join’ with the next Gen 30 to produce a breeding pair - was absent where She was present.

Aethena was a highly visible inscrutable mystery to lesser generations, her brother an unnerving absence stalking the fringes of any public appearance of Aethena or Anderis.  

He seemed to Grathoss, more weapon than man, and despite his efforts Grathoss had never been able to meaningfully engage him in conversation long enough to comprehend how he stood on the question of the Outdated.

“A disappointing effort Guardian Primus,” Anderis noted immediately

“Or Precogs have confirmed that the Sith fleet was not delayed one moment by our intervention -we killed thousands - but they have press-ganged tens of thousands to replace them,”

Kestis could only nod and scrape for positives

“We have at least assessed the ground combat capability of our enemy, and the deficiencies of our own forces.”

“A deficiency in leadership,” Grathoss emphasised turning to Kesits, his hand on his hips just above his Resolution dagger.

“Our vessels were able to enter and exit the conflict zone undetected,  Nyx shrouds combined with Veil of Mist were undeniably effective, the initial reports indicate enemy losses over 5,000 - our soldiers and ships are superior in every dimension. They were not utilised in the most optimal manner. “

“The Sith Elite were vastly more capable than we predicted,” Kestis defended “Their sheer numbers and willingness to sacrifice them on mass was unpredictable, we need to better understand our enemy, to which end I’ve authorized a substantial information gathering mission to be led by Valence,”

The Gen 30 took a single step forward, producing a fist sized Noctilith orb from seemingly nowhere, no doubt utilizing Aetheric-Dimensional Folding that no one beneath a Gen 30 could successfully perform on such a large object.

“The Department of Extrapolation has determined the Siths next two destinations. We will be waiting for them this time.  We will isolate, capture, and ‘harvest’ one of their higher ranking ‘officers’.  

These Eidetic-Harvesting Orbs specially designed over the last five Rotationals on my, and Aethena’s instruction by the Department of Aethengineering will extract their memories from their minds swiftly and efficiently.”

His voice was efficient, absent any tone or intonation, more weapon than man Grathoss confirmed to himself.

“This should drastically bolster our understanding of the enemy,” Kestis added

“And be executed with perfect efficiency” Grathoss said approvingly of Valence’s leadership,

“A separate contingency is also being arranged to ensure they do not pass Prakith,” Anderis spoke at last, having carefully observed the ill feelings between Grathoss and Kestis, and more interestingly the utter indifference of the task focused Valence.

“This minor setback will soon be forgotten.” Anderis assured.



Mark. My. Words

How could she not - each one was punctuated with a strike from his Noctilith cane

If those fichas ever catch so much as the slightest scent you exist they will Hunt you and KILL you!

A comforting thing to say to a child of only 5 Orbitals as she was berated once more for failing to wear a glamour and conceal herself for reasons she still didn’t understand at so young an age.

Mark My…

Snapping back to full consciousness Eileithyia sprang up in her seat just before she dropped into a slumber that would’ve let down her glamor and exposed her true face to everyone on the ship.

Warm Aether currents of her homeworld flooded into her body reawakening her more fully - but only to the injuries she’d sustained.

As soon as the ship landed she had to get away, through the Synaptic Web tunnels of the Resonance cascade network to her shabby home under Alixandraea where Mentor had long Orbitals before inflicted those harsh lessons on the need to conceal herself.

Had he foreseen such a moment?  

She was surrounded by Guardians, the only surviving vessel packed with 58 survivors - or at least bodies, all bearing some injury from the Sith brutes.

Elbows and knees were in her face as she huddled in a corner clinging to the glamour that made her appear uninjured, folding herself into a non-attention aether veil to divert any interest in her.

Her mouth was mush, her hip cauterized from the energy blade.  But she had to hide, had to escape.

I hate you Mentor she seethed even as she drew on his relentless abusive training to keep herself hidden - operant conditioning in its simplest form - Keep the glamour on or get the cane.

The aether of her home accelerated the stabilising of her wounds, but when she landed…there would be Guardians everywhere, and Actuaries of the Directorate of Apportionment - ‘fichas’ as Mentor sneered at them.

Afraid for yourself old man…they might be disgusted by me…but you…older than generation 23… she used that anger, the thought that Mentor used her to protect himself, to stabilize her glamour further.

Sirens sounded, instructions were issued, some order began to form just before the harsh dawn light filtered into the Gliders hull.

Outside were more Guardians than she had ever seen in thick rubbery white Containment suits.

She could feel the outer layers of her skin start to burn from aether over-use as she kept trying to both heal herself and keep her glamour up.

A line began to form at the exit, the first Guardian off subject to incinerator cleansing flames as part of biohazard containment procedures.

Founder be damned she was at the back of the line.

Weighing up her options against the throbbing drain she pushed ahead, enhancing her Aetheric Attention Displacement Veil as strongly as she could to get to the front.

The Phaethon Glider was on an open air platform, but beneath a shimmering blue Sequestration field that sat dome like over the whole landing area, a control tower ahead, and beneath that an entrance to a bunker she hoped led to a transit node.

“Next” the Guardian leading containment called,  she stepped forward and felt immense relief as she dropped, for a moment, her attention displacement veil - but all that had to be diverted to her glamour as more eyes focused on her.

“Arms out legs apart,” he demanded then barely had her limbs moved than she was doused in flames.  The heat instantly set all her injuries throbbing with twice the intensity, barely able to be suppressed.

There was no regard to any injury or exposed flesh, Aethan skin should be adequate to survive such extremes temporarily.

The flames seared off the kolto patches and cauterized her wounds.

The rippled her glamour as his burnt into her mouth and she tasted raw flame for a brief endless moment

And they went on…

And on…

Till finally satisfied they had seared off any Outsider material he said…

“Proceed to Decontamination, Next,”  

Stumbling forward she followed white lines marked on the hard ferrocrete ground leading toward the bunker.

Each step was an exercise in endurance, she imagined Mentors cane on her back, his many punishments urging her to take the next step or face a harsher beating later.

There were too many eyes outside…she just had to get into the Bunker, its thick metal doors were open to her…

Why am I doing this… she cursed as her jaw clacked out of place, her steps became more ungainly from her hip injury and birth deformities, she felt her self half stall for a second, and the attention of someone in the Control tower briefly upon her.


Mark My Words! the memory came again as her consciousness swirled dangerously close to the abyss of collapse, thoughts and images hypnotically twisting at her sixth and fifth levels, starting to infiltrate the Fourth and third, while her second held the Glamour and her First tried to keep moving.

Her vision began to swim, the bunker and figures up ahead unfocused across all layers of her vision, the overlaid thermal vision our of sync with her electromagnetic vision, her mass sensing vestibular systems spiralling..


She stumbled…

But the hard ferrocrete didn’t meet her..

Worse…

The steely grip of someone catching her.

The shock triggered another rush of Aepheodaesin in her body bringing short term clarity, she was right at the doors…so close

“This way,” said who ever had caught her, her ears ringing with the red throb of damage too much to make out if it was a man or woman

She felt herself dragged, her feet trying to find purchase as she was brought into the dark of the bunker.

Her glamour was flickering, she didn’t have much longer, she felt her body begin to slack as she was moved down halls and through doors, toward the end of a room lined with beds - the Treatment clinic no doubt.

The room vibrated slightly with familiar tremble of an arriving Resonance Cascade Cargo Module…she was so close…of course a small outpost far from the fort would have a Node nearby…but she was a world away.

She felt herself lifted and placed onto a bed, the phirk enhanced durasteel bed frame heaving under her armored weight.

Eileithyia awaited the inevitable, the probing hands of a surgeon uncovering her deformities, and she no longer had the strength to mind wipe them.

But instead…..

Footsteps…away from her.

Had…why…

She took a heady breath of the cycled air, then with all the strength she could leapt up, divesting herself of her glamour she directed all energy to her legs and senses.

There was no one nearby, whoever had placed her there was heading back up, no doubt to get the next patient.

Her torso was swaying, her head bobbing she relied on her mass senses to guide her to the Node round the corner.  No one was there, it was an auto-run.

With a grunting effort she pushed herself over the safety rail and onto the track, scrambling toward a nearby access door.  

Her hands ungainly, fingers feeling fat and imprecise opened the door and she slid in, closing it behind her.

Quickly remembering she grabbed at what was left of her breast plate, and tore it free.

Hurling it to the ground, with a desperate grunt charged her elbow with kinetite power to break it open, shattering the inbuilt Squad Tracer Unit within.

Ahead was a handful of panels and the maintenance tunnel that ran parallel to the main line.

Collapsing down she allowed herself a brief few moments before beginning the long, slow walk back, hoping in the confusion above no one noticed one Guardian had vanished.




With detached indifference Grathoss inspected the corpse of one of the Gen 25s who had not survived their wounds, his hand hovering over the body drawing the threads of memory into his mind before they were whisked away using Aetheric Chronospection - a far more perfect mix of what the first generations of Aethans called Psychometry and ‘Flow Sight’.

The rest of the injured sat or lay undergoing Aetheric Geno-reversion protocols - the reversion of cells to stem state before aether accelerated healing, fuelled by mass nutrient ingestion.  Within 10-20 Orbitals all damage would be repaired.

He quickly sensed the approach of one his actuaries who had been observing the return of the Guardians closely.

Grathoss immediately headed toward his fellow Gen 29, Elsep Nal Kyrgos, her jacket tight as her crimson hair was pulled back emphasizing strong green eyes.

Leaning forward as he reached her, she communicated Telepathically to him alone.

“A preliminary audit has been undertaken, there is one Guardian unaccounted for,”

“Lost in battle?”

“No this one’s Squad Tracer unit indicated they landed but it went offline shortly after, we are searching the facility however the contamination protocols are delaying our efforts.  Further there is a discrepancy on Glider 3’s passenger manifest when leaving Aethas,”

“Let me guess it's related to the same Squad Tracer….” Grathoss noted

“Correct Director…it appears someone participated in the mission who did not wish to be known,”

Grathoss nodded, briefly expanded his aetheric observance to the control tower high above where Anderis and Kestis remained, discussing resourcing.

Besides the Valence seemed to be staring idly at the ground far beneath them - if the Gen 30 was listening to the Anderis or Grathoss conversation - certainly within his power unlike the Outdated - he showed no obvious interest.


“Continue your investigation,” Grathoss ordered,  “I want this errant Aethan found,”
 


“It was a disaster,” Doctor Jival Pon Rrist’s voice bounced off the transparisteel pods in which small lumps of flesh floated in kolto, heavily sterilized feeder tubules covered in chemoattractants that would draw the placental villi to it, connecting the embryo to the vast network of carefully designed nutritional banks that would provide all it required to grow -to a point that is.

“Over half the Guardian force was wiped out, none of the survivors escaped without injury, Anderis’ position is fragile,”

The defeat did not concern Dr. Jurahl Fid Calrahn as he looked up from his holoscreen, but the political and resource implications for each Project certainly did.

He was running a fine line as it was siphoning resources for Phase Atlantiandes, keeping just outside the threshold that would see the Directorate of Apportionment investigate where the kolto and equipment was vanishing to.

Jival was sitting on the desk beside him, as always the Generation 28 woman exuded an effortless aura of seductivity, pheromones gently breezed out from modified glands across her deliberately partially exposed breasts.

More than enough to confuse the hapless Dastur but an irrelevance to Calrahn who had made a concerted attempt to ensure he was not distracted from fulfilling Varas great work.


“And for Atlantiades, what will be the implications?” he finally shifted his gaze to her.

Jival went on under his focused stare, though she yielded not a micron to his intensity.

“Resources will be redirected, Project Aertemisaea is to receive the bulk, manufacturing is to pivot to a 30 per cent increase in military materiel -  hardware that we need…” she gestured to the intricate and expansive growth chambers, centrifuges, sanitation chambers, pressure and heating regulators that hid in carefully planned clusters behind each gestation pod

“....will be much harder to come by,”

“You have this all from your best source?” he asked

“The best,” she confirmed.

As useful as Jival was to him in the Laboratory, one of her finest skills was extracting information from senior members of the Directorate through her frequent trips to the Hetairion for Precedenture, her silken voice and thick pheromones drawing out all manner of useful tidbits from them.  

To her it was a pleasure, a way to relieve what Jurahl always suspected was an imperfection in her hormonal levels that made her especially amorous and accounted for her 1.4 per cent higher than average pheromone efficacy based on his clandestine sampling.

“However, the Director also said that they ‘...want every womb filled’...before he attempted to fill mine,” she added with a smile she intended to be sly but he found merely crass.

“They want replacement troops, fast.  There is still a long way for these Interlopers to go - Kingdom of Prakith, the Ygmir Pirate Confederacy, Byss Sector feudal states - years at least, time enough to raise one generation…the question is which,” she finished with a mischievous grin.

Jurahl returned the optimism, at last an opportunity to show what Atlantiades could achieve!

And more than that a chance to ‘field test’ the new zygotes he had been producing from various blends of gametes extracted from Atlantiades Stage 2 and Stage 1.

“Has a successor to Dastur been appointed yet?”

“No, but my source is pushing for Dr. Evyn Resa Kranel, a gen 29,”

“Of course he is,” Jurahl said with an eye roll, he was well aware of who her main source was, but never stated the name out of an abundance of caution.

Regardless Jurahl had no issue with Evyn, a decent operator who was more focused on his own misguided research into uterine implantation failures as a cause of reduced conceptions, he would leave Jurahl free to his own devices.

Jival was rarely wrong with such things, she had a subtlety to her charisma he knew he lacked, one of the reasons Jurahl kept her so close.

But catching her pheromones on his pallet once more, he reminded himself, never too close.

A bag heavy and wet with skulls and hearts leaving a slick trail behind as she dragged it, Impes strode unmolested down the halls of Yn’s vessel.  

The enormous craft was home to thousands of helots barely kept in line by brutish Whipmasters, each more than willing to slaughter anyone seen as slightly weaker than themselves to take their meager possessions of food and water skeins, or indeed feed on them directly.

Most were male, two dozen or more species, large and strong oafs who had survived the longest through cruelty and violence. A woman as short and thin as Impes would ordinarily be torn to shreds in hours by their vicious desires.


Yet from her they fled in terror, hiding in rooms off the dripping cold halls of bare metal grates and endless pipes, those that couldn’t find an exit cowered on their knees hiding their faces.

For she was the Black-Witch, the Darkside-Enchantress, the Cursed and Blessed, and tales swirled of the writhing agony inflicted on those who dared meet her black eyed gaze within patchy pale skin, or so much as brush one of the thick braids that fell down her back and sweet along the floor.

All the tales were true, and indeed the agony they spoke of wasn’t half what she had truly inflicted.

Yet it was not always so…she remembered vividly the day the fleeing band of sell-swords had come to the scrapyard she had been born to.  


Her parents were one pair among tens of thousands of scurrying scavengers that picked over the skeletal groaning metal corpses of tens of thousands of ships that had fallen to the nameless planet after a forgotten battle centuries before.  


She had learned to plasma-slice out useable copper from panels before she could walk, had never known a face not smudged in rust and grimy oil, never a breath that wasn’t interrupted by a hacking cough from the heavy pollutants that leached from the soil of the tainted mortuary to forgotten wars.

She had always been, as the old hag who skirted the fringes of even their outcast society had said, touched by the Gods, able to see and hear things that were not quite there, press her own wants on others.


The raiders had come already bloody and injured from some lost battle looking for easy pickings, and they found it, even as she watched her father blasted away she knew her best hope of survival lay in attaching herself to the strongest of the raiders, using the ‘touch’ she had been ‘blessed’ with to have him keep her for entertainment rather than sell.  

Barely thirteen turns her life as an object traded between Captains, petty champions and wretched slavers began, her ‘Touch’ developing stronger and she influenced her ‘owners’,  learning subtlety to manipulate her way up to ever more powerful patrons over the cycles.  

She lost count of how many Swords and Mercenary leaders she had been the nominal possession of, none worth remembering until she finally reached the harem of Darth Nammu, a petty tyrant ruler of a handful of systems around Uruk Nab, one among thousands of others that ruled the patchwork of mini-kingdoms, tyrannies and hegemonies across the mids rim and core.

Nammu’s vast harem ensured his attention was rarely on her, allowing her access to his library of old tomes, and most usefully the Meditation Sphere that he didn’t seem inclined to spend the time to use, favoring his brutish rectangular metal War-Barge over the veined spherical Sith creation.

It was to this Sphere she walked to now, Sword’s, Scythe and even the barely cogent Kallu ‘holy men’ keeping their distance from her.


For what Curses and Torments she didn’t learn from the tomes and the Sphere, she invented herself as an outpouring of her un-expressed frustrations. Nammu failed over and over to make any real gains in the endless rivalry of warlords, until finally one of his ‘Loyal’ Swords over threw him - coming upon Nammu in the midst of his ‘exertions’ with the harem and mauling him to death with his own crown.

That upstart was Yn Sa’c’han, a mulatto of some unknown mix of Zeltron, human and possibly Zabrak.  She had seen her chance then, offering herself not as concubine but as a valuable ally - in exchange for a place as his ‘court witch’.

She would use blood magic to bind his Swords in loyalty to him with curses, proving her capability by placing a vicious Malacia on one of the other concubines who had on occasion taking to beating her - as her body twisted inside out, and needing to secure his new place, the wary but ambitious Yn agreed.

Her Meditation Sphere was kept apart from the other vessels, beneath a forest of vine like cables and maze of gantries and beams in a hangar bay, its bulbous form and ‘eye’ like front glaring at the heavy rusted blast doors scaring any of the slaves from peeping in.

Yn was as useful an ally as could be expected, demanding of her talents, but equally willing, however grudgingly, to give her time and opportunity to pursue her own interests - allowing her a two standard year pilgrimage upon her Meditation Sphere to the Old Worlds of Ziost, Korriban and Dormuns Kaas to earn the title of ‘Darth’ in the eyes of the Shade-Ghost’s Lords of Old, their affirmation echoing in morbid tones across the dry tombs as crackling black winds branded her forehead with the symbol of her elevation.

It was only another step for her.  

She was not born with ambition, or any destiny for great things, none were, she made her own future and sought her own power, the darkside did not guide or control her -she used it to gather ever more power that one day she might transcend the need for it as she had overcome her subjugation to her users…

And in the skulls and hearts of the Grey-Armours were, she was certain she had the next key.

Even Yn sensed there was something more to pursue and together they had more a chance of finding it than alone.

You return the Sphere called as it’s semi-flesh underside crackled open with a ramp - it seemed to have no ‘fixed’ entry, each opening was a wound in its body swiftly healed but painfully created nonetheless, an apt lesson to any who entered it.

Yet not alone it’s voice was not a voice, but a whisper in her mind, it wasn’t sentient but some accumulation of the imprimit of its prior owners personalities.  She had never seen a holocron but imagined they must function something like that.

She held up the bag that was almost soaked through with rich blood

“This?” she inquired, the dead hardly counted as companions and she sensed no ghosts lingering upon them, yet the sphere, she had to admit, could sense things she could not, and didn’t always seem to experience the same ‘temporal reality’ as she did.

No, What they will lead you to




His Rune and Sigil both tingled with expectation, he stood taller than ever, each slight motion causing a soothing paid as the scourge vine under his new battle place stabbed into him.

While he had not obtained a full Reaver Guard suit, the slaves Jol had been assigned on his evelevation had been able to scramble together a decent set covering his limbs and chest…mostly…

It didn’t bother him, his faith was the only Shield he needed, and if the Darkside deemed he serve his Dominar by death this day, not even Annunaki Shell could protect him.

In his hand was the saber he had taken on Keeara, the battle would be remembered by him only as it was the moment of his ascent in the service of his Lord.

Around him in the sweaty humid confies of the Flesh Barge were a hundred other swords, some in full chipped Reaver guard worn in a hundred battles, others recently raised as he was.  

Before them stood Darth Xylos, the vast Chagrian not moving an inch as the vessel buckled and bumped, his Rab Kīššati, the General of Xylos non Sith armies, held a glowing mechanical device whose name Jol did not know, receiving information from the surface.

There was never a pause in the campaign and Xylos was especially keen for this invasion.

“Listen well,” he growled

“This world is the greatest Industrial centre of the Grimnir zone, here we can raise monuments to our glorious lord, and build new vessels of war, but ONLY once the popular has bent the knee.

Our Lord Incarnatio Tenebrarum, has promised this world and Keeara as fief to whomever takes the most of the Forge Nexi intact within a standard day - our slaves have already landed…”

Just a day before Jol would’ve been among those first to land…he felt a pang of loss not to be the first to spill blood for his Lord, but he was consoled that he would come to accept his new place of service soon.

“...Darth Kaels forces have already taken much -and resistance from the local Oligarchs is strengthening, their Hoplite regiments taking a toll.  As yet no swords have engaged, they will not be prepared for you my valiant swords.

Break them, but let them flee, if I am to dominate this world and Impose the Glory of the Dark upon it we will need servants and new warriors,”

Xylos was an architect under Darth Nammu, designing many grand imposing structures until he took up the Lordship, drawn to the dark side's ability to impose order upon the mind and body through sheer will just as steel and stone imposed order upon the very earth and stars.

These orders were not natural for Jol, but he would force himself to learn that service came in many forms - even calculated restraint.

The Flesh Barge slammed down with a bone-jarring impact, disgorging its cargo of Sith Swords directly behind a defensive line of Oligarch Hoplites.

The air was thick with the acrid tang of burning ozone and superheated metal, the clamor of industrial machinery competing with distant blaster fire.

Before them stretched the Forge-Core Nexus, a sprawling industrial complex of staggering proportions.

Towering, blackened smokestacks belched plumes of acrid steam into a perpetual twilight sky.

Girders crisscrossed above, supporting vast conveyor belts that ferried glowing ingots and raw materials between colossal factories.

The ground vibrated with the thrum of subterranean machinery, a mechanical heartbeat that echoed the grim pulse of the planet.

Indentured workers, pale and gaunt, moved through the complex like automatons.

Some glanced up, their eyes wide with terror before quickly returning to their tasks, pulling levers, pushing carts, feeding furnaces, their bodies mere extensions of the grim industrial machine overseen by the great Houses..

Others simply continued their endless labor, their faces blank with indifference, as if the sounds of war were just another clang in the ceaseless rhythm of the factory.

Jol surveyed the scene through the visor of his battle plate.

The Hoplites arrayed before him were well-armed, their formations tight and disciplined, a testament to their masters' wealth.

They wielded Plasma-Lances, energy beam spears that glowed with an internal, unstable light.

Ahead the ground was awash with the corpses of  the Cult of the Gnarled Tooth and the Zealots of Perpetual Anguish that the disciplined pahalnxes of the Hotpiles had shredded.

Jol briefly fixed on one nameless ghouls skin dead among them…

Just a day before that would’ve been him.  But the Darkside, his glorious Dominar had higher purposes Jol knew, written as a sigil into his flesh.

The Hoplites medium armor, made of gleaming, polished durasteel, reflected the grim light of the industrial zone, but it was their varied colors that caught Jol's attention. Each regiment proudly displayed the livery of their Oligarch masters, a patchwork quilt of desperate loyalty.

To his immediate left, a compact phalanx wore armor of deep, almost regal Veridian-Green, their Plasma-Lances humming ominously. These were the forces of House Montagnero, known for their ancient wealth derived from mining conglomerates.

Further down the line, a larger contingent was clad in Crimson-Orange, the bold colors of House Belladonna, who controlled the planet's vast chemical processing plants.

Clustered around a heavily reinforced bunker, a small but fiercely determined group wore stark Ivory and Gold, the colors of House Aurelius, controllers of the precious metal foundries.

They looked well-equipped, their Plasma-Lances shining with a particularly vicious intensity.

Jol focused, drawing on the Dark Side as his fellow swords filled the smoky air with the ominous red glow of their sabers .

It didn't rage and burn as it normally did, instead, it flowed through him like a cold, precise current, amplifying his senses, clarifying his intent.

He felt the fear radiating from many of the Hoplites – fear for their lives, for their families, for their masters' wrath.

But beneath that, in some, was a harder, colder knot of defiance, a stubborn unwillingness to yield.

These are the intransigent, the Dark Side whispered, a low hum in his very bones. These are the nails that must be hammered down.

He lunged forward, his saber a crimson blur.

The Dark Side guided his movements with chilling precision, bypassing the terrified, the hesitant, the weary.

His blade met the glowing tip of a Plasma-Lance, deflecting it effortlessly.

He didn't waste a stroke on the Hoplite whose eyes darted nervously, already looking for an escape route.

Instead, his saber plunged into the chest of the determined warrior beside him, one whose face was set in a grim mask of pure resolve. The man fell, his life extinguished with ruthless efficiency.

Around him, his fellow Swords carved through the Oligarch lines.

Those who hesitated, those who showed even a flicker of doubt, were often left alive, their armor scarred, their Plasma-Lances shattered, their will broken.

But any who raised their Plasma-Lances with true intent, any who planted their feet and sought to stand against the inevitable, met the precise, devastating fury of a Sith blade.

The air filled with the crackle of energy, the clang of metal, and the terrified cries of the dying, interspersed with the monotonous rhythm of the industrial complex, a grim symphony for the conquerors.

Jol moved like a specter, his every strike a judgment, carefully separating the pliable from the unyielding, collecting unwilling servants and new warriors for Lord Xylos.

Malignon would be taken, its warriors and slaves would bend to Lord Yn - thus was his Dominars will, thus shall it be done!.

For hours Jol stalked, killed, harried, harassed and pursued, his Rune and Sigil bit with cold intent, a sensation he had never experienced yet grew to enjoy just as much as the fiery head of aimless bloodlust he had experienced as an adherent.

As a Sigil thrall , he had truly taken his first steps into a larger galaxy - yet the small still mattered, the three hoplites of House Belladonna pinned in front of him, two in the usual durasteel waving their plasma lances menacingly, one in the middle with golden edging to his armor less certain.

Jol slashed his blade at the tips of the lances, the fear of the sith had infected them, they were deep in the foundries now, Jol hardly knew how far back the Flesh Barge was and only intermittently heard the bellow of Xylos orders.

He hacked further, originally these three should cut him down with ease, yet even if they did what then, they had witnessed hundreds more just like him, and their forces not dead were in flight.

The fear took the one of the left fully, his grip wavered for the briefest moment and Jol struck, lunging forward allowing the plasma lances energize aura to his exposed flesh to smash the face with his saber hilt as the gantry they stood on trembled with the vast steps of Xylos.

“We surrender!” the one in gold cried throwing down his lance, Jol holding back his next strike mid air.

Beneath his helm Xylos grinned.

 

There was nowhere for Impes to sit in the spheres veined interior, the only feature was a bone like whorl of what seemed to be roots - or rather nerves - cluttered in the center, gripping the correct one with the correct pressure could force the Sphere to move should it resist an order and inflict some form of pain upon it in the process.


The Sphere itself resented any large objects being brought within.  It tolerated Impes various tools and a few pelts for her to sit on, as well as a large patchwork of flayed flesh upon which she painted her blood runes and performed her magicks.


Floating at some distance from Yn’s flagship, the battle on the surface now won, Impes sat surrounded by the skulls of the Grey-Armours, the blood of their hearts squeezed into a bowl and used to paint the symbols and warding circles around her.

Yn disliked her performing her larger rituals within his vessel, there could be…backwash in the Force that turned nearby helots into whimpering blobs or frenzied madmen, either way extinguishing their usefulness.

 You should be cautious was whispered in her mind by the Meditation sphere itself.

The veiny, bulbous ancient vessel had a semi sentient mind comprised of imprints of all its previous owners, one, or several of whom, must’ve been especially wary as it tended to encourage patience and restraint, qualities many warlords would not consider ‘Sith’ but which Impes knew were just as valuable as aggression and opportunism.

“I only seek to probe them,” she replied, confident in her abilities.

Beware they do not ‘probe’ back

It was a possibility but a slim one she felt, and the rewards were surely worth the risk.

Closing her eyes and drawing the Dark from within and without her she let her mind slip out of her mortal frame

The Grey-armours blood though dead was rich and still aglow with more raw force energy than lesser Swords and Daggers among Yn’s warriors, clearly this humanoid race was born to the Force, albeit a particularly amoral visceral strain of it.

She sipped at the slowly dissipating energies of the dead, careful not to take too much into her own aura lest she be dragged into the abyss with them, but enough to ensure she acquired their taste that she might recognize it.

It was a careful balancing act, like mixing her tinctures, too little of the solute was ineffective, too much a poison.

Several times she feared she had taken in too much, pulling herself back sharply as the dead continued to leech the remnants of themselves into the Force…always in the same ‘direction’…

The Same Direction?

That was curious. Usually the souls of the dead dissipated in what, to her ethereal view, was a diffuse ‘cloud’ around the body and into the ever present Force, only occasionally perhaps ‘sinking’ into an object of particular meaning to the deceased - often, she had noted in her observations of the endless conflicts between Swords vying for prestige, the weapon that murdered them.

This is all too easy…they are flowing back to the source! Her physical form grinned as her psychic presence clawed along the tendrils of quickly escaping life energies. 

The Force knew no distance in Space or Time, and how far she was ‘traveling’ behind the essences of the Grey-Armours in light years could only be guessed at, but she felt it wasn’t overly far on a galactic scale.

A pooling vortex of energy lit on the horizon of her Soulsight, a slow turning blend of three shades of bloody red coalescing that grew and grew as she drew near it, the Grey-Armours dead souls being sucked into the Vortex, separated into the three components of the blend then warped into it’s depths.

Detaching her metaphysical claws from the Grey-Armours - not fading rather consumed life energies, she ‘stared’ in wonderment at the Vortex, it was entrancing, alluring, somehow generative.

As her soul hovered trying to discern the nature of the Vortex, ‘eyes’ within it twisted round causing Impes to pull back to avoid being seen. 

Impes remained still till the ‘gaze’ turned back to whatever had been occupying it before.

Damn Sphere was right…

There were minds in there, their attentions all turned inwardly, heedless and arrogant in their dismissal of what lay beyond their obsessions.

She glided through the Soulsea unnoticed, the scent of petty jealousies and intellectual ambition rife.

The thoughts were complex and quick…too quick for her to even decipher it was at once both refreshing change compared to the slow base thoughts of those in the armada…and intimidating…these minds were deadly, fast and keen, but fortunately turned inward to their own concerns.

She delved deeper and deeper a quiet observer.

Clearly this was not the Jedi enclave she had initially suspected, but there was still power here…much power…but it seemed…unuseable, already ‘dedicated’ to something…something past her understanding - or perhaps beneath it?

There had to be something of worth, something she could exploit here…

But she couldn’t linger too long.

The arrogance and introspection of the denizens of this strange Force vortex would not last forever - they would rise from their other tasks and sense her eventually…and the blood of the Grey-Armours that kept her connected would soon sour and break the link…

Finally, as the viscera and bones rotted to dust around her physical form she found something she could grasp. 

A mind, both silent and brimming, empty of cognition, yet full of instinct…

This she knew…this was a prize greater than the pillage Yn sought this was true power.

Gently, motherly even, she caressed the mind and waited.

A tingle, a spark?

She caressed again.

Curiosity? Need?”
She caressed a third time

It caressed back.


As Dr. Jurahl Fid Calrahn revelled in the depths of the Codices of Darth Caldtoh, jotting notes that expertly integrated the long death Siths methods with Modern Technocracy Genengineering he did not notice how, in the vast Kolto tank behind him, Atlantiades Phase 2, the image of perfection twitched in response to the first non clinical touch the vat grown being had ever received.


The wind, thick with the tang of ozone and spent plasma, whipped around Lord Yn on the command platform overlooking the Forge-Core Nexus, the vast control centre cleared of staff, in their place at the grimy consoles and closed camera systems stood hundreds of swords, at their feet dozens of senior Hoplites.

Far below, the vast industrial sprawl pulsed with a reawakening hum, a testament to the grim efficiency of his conquest.

The smoke choked sky a fitting oppressive ceiling for the spectacle.

Beside him, Impes hovered, the dark tendrils of her crude magicks still faintly visible, a disturbing counterpoint to the raw power Yn preferred.

His Scythes stood as silent, unwavering sentinels along with Darths Xylos, Kael and Seraph who had competed for this prize. 

And around his feet, collared at the neck, the Tetan Countess in her ever more soiled white rags.

Before him, dragged and prodded into position by his Imhullu Warriors, were the Heads of House Montagnero, House Belladonna, and House Aurelius.

Their vibrant, defiant armor now scuffed, elaborate feathered caps torn, faces etched with a mix of terror, exhaustion, and simmering hatred.

The plasma-lances aimed at his army now lay shattered in the dust, relics of a futile resistance.

Yn surveyed them, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“See now, what true strength is…see now what defiance earns!” he snarled, his voice amplified by his armor's vocoder, echoing across the metal vastness as he swept his arm across the grand sweep of the forge.


Beneath thousands of indentured workers, their forms dwarfed by the towering foundries, were already being herded back to their posts, overseen by the watchful eyes of Imhullu Warriors - Yns elite had not been needed for this invasion but provided a more disciplined force to secure these critical resources.

“If you wish to retain any privilege and wealth you have,” Yn growled eyeing each House lord in turn,

“You will swear fealty to me, Lord Yn, Incarnatio Tenebrarum, Dominar and Master" he commanded, his voice dripping with menace.

"And then you will swear fealty to Darth Xylos, who will impose my will upon this domain. Your industries, your resources, your very lives... are now his to command, in my name."

Yn already sensed the irritation in Darth Kael behind him having lost the race to the fief. 

In truth Yn was never going to give it to another, Xylos was a builder like Nammu had once been, solid as a fortress, the perfect to stabilize these worlds and turn the foundries to resupply of the Armada.
 
He gestured with his gauntlet towards Darth Xylos, who stood a respectful distance behind him, his Chagrian form a silent, imposing shadow. "

The heads of the houses exchanged desperate glance

The man from House Aurelius, his gold-trimmed armor dented, could hardly keep the scowl from his face, he glared at Lord Yn…yet his gaze drifted down the chain Yn held to the neck vice around the thin white blond haired woman's neck that the Sith kept as some kind of pet.

Eidea, once Countess of Teta, met the gaze of the Lord of House Aurelius and simply shook her head as she struggled to breath in the collar.

Yn felt the exchange, a surge of impatient jealousy flowed through him. But he held back, a thin grin just escaping, his little ‘Pet’ had served her purpose of showing what awaited the noble ‘ladies’ here if their husbands, sons and fathers remained defiant .

And regardless Xylos needed these worms alive - for now.

The Dark preceptors strode forward, hissing hot brands drawn from cauldrons carried by blinded slaves to place the Thrall Runes on the Nobles Necks, as with a series of grunts and strained whispers, one by one, the Oligarchs knelt.

Their oaths were forced, thin words but the burning flesh of the branding would ensure they were kept nonetheless, Impes fingers twisting in weird patterns that unnerved the Oligarchs ever more deeply.

At last Yn turned to Xylos tugging at his Pet as he did so, Eidea letting out a whimper shuffling after her captor.

Though vastly taller Yn slapped his hand on the pauldron of his Darths Annunaki Shell as if encouraging a child.

“Build here Xylos, build for the glory of the Darkside,”



Kneeling in the sand beneath scorching white midday sun the Noctilith armoured warrior placed the small light eating link-orb back in its flip-case beside six others, the message delivered by the scouts, then stood to speak with the 8 others in Phrik armour.

Three who stood watch, five others who with intricate Noctilith instruments prepared by the Directorates of Aethengineering and Extrapolation pulled images of the future to determine where to place their ambush with precision impossible for their blunt - but numerous -enemies to comprehend. 

“Confirmation, Malignon is captured, the Sith will arrive here soon,”  Valence noted succinctly as he surveyed the future battlefield on the edge of the sand scorched desert by a mountain of near pure zerisium that overlooked fertile tranquil oases, humanoid workers tending to vast palms that produced their food in ignorance of what was approaching - and of what was already here. 

If they were to slow these Sith, more knowledge and a more targeted approach was needed.

Keeara had been a misfire, well intentioned but ill informed.  A mistake that would not be made again. 

“Begin preparation,” he ordered.

No wonder the New Sith Wars--the Draggulch Period--lasted an entire millennium.  The vast Sith armies of Lord Yn exemplify the exacting nature of how terrible the galaxy-spanning war was, resulting in the complete disruption of entire planetary, indeed systemic(!), upheaval and eventual collapse.  It certainly lends credence as to WHY the geopolitical as well as technological stasis of the Galaxy at large has occurred on such a monumental area as well as longterm timeline.  To wit...

Lord Yn's tactics are seemingly simple but are in fact nuanced and brilliant: before committing many "important" resources, he sends in cannon fodder as the invasion's vanguard both to overwhelm as well as drive home the fear of such terrible Sith attacks.  When the local defenses have been adequately softened, he then sends in his captains to command his more elite troops on more "surgical" strikes; look at Darth Xylos' regiment with the newly-minted Sword and Sigil-Thrall Jol: Jol himself points out the strategic importance of his new role, and that--compared to what he was--who he is has become both larger AND "smaller" by comparison.  I'm reminded of the difference between a cluster/carpet bombing run vs. laser-guided missile strikes.

But where Yn arguably propels him above his respective Sith Lords and Darths is the fact that he knows the difference when brute force is necessary compared to something more subtle.  Enter Darth Impes: theirs is an interesting "partnership" (if such a relationship is applicable, especially during the Mid-Draggulch) whereas they recognize both their strengths and weaknesses as well as the fact that the other can buttress those weaknesses, creating a much more potent, much more dangerous synergy than their Sith compatriots.

Rounding out their war strategy is the fact that Yn DOES conquer and govern by fear but also recognizes the necessity to keep the majority of the populace alive to replenish his own losses as well as bolstering his growing armies.  One wonders what would've happened on Ruusan had Yn been there instead of/in addition to Skere Kaan: would Hoth have been successful?  Would the Brotherhood have lost?  Would Bane have initiated the Rule of Two?  I'd wager that the New Sith Wars would've continued instead of what history recorded...

Yet on the other side we begin to see the flaws inherent in the system within Genesis Deus.  Ironically, it's not lack of power, nor lack of resources that contributes to the Technocracy's fall but rather a lack of FOCUS as well as hubris (again: HIGHLY ironic given Soran Varas' own predilections).  And, as it turns out, regardless of "advanced" the society (or perhaps more BECAUSE of it) there are those most petty of emotions that seem to be prevalent to undermine Aethas e.g. jealousy, bigotry, extreme xenophobia.  Consider: what if the members of the Directorate had come together in unity instead of the disparate factions that they've subtly-yet-perceptively fractured into?  Which leads me to another irony: in their pursuit of apotheosis, the Technocracy is susceptible to the basest of the human condition.

And it is Eileithyia who is both aggressor and victim of the Technocracy's blindness (yes, deliberate given that her Glamors not only obfuscate those from seeing her as she is but also allows her to continue on without looking too closely at the viper's pit that is Aethas).  And yet, she seems to also be the most aware of the "imperfect" nature of the society surrounding her.  It probably says much that, in deceiving them Eileithyia is contemptuous of the Technocracy for that precise reason...while simultaneously adhering to Aethan ideals and superiority. 

How can one such as her not have hatred/disgust/confusion for what she is given her environment?

But now that the two Forces are coming together courtesy of Impes' Force ministrations and Jurahl's unwise inclusion of Sith Alchemy in Phase Atlantiades, there is now a bond, a connection where none would otherwise exist.  Could this be (at least in part) the impetus of the invasion leading to the Devastation?  Soran Varas believed in pure, unbridled science "unburdened" by morals and humanity...and perhaps that is the biggest irony of all: it becomes this lack of caution by way of curiosity that inevitably leads to apocalyptic results.

Meta-note: BRILLIANT storytelling LSG!  I've said it before BUT I'm SO glad that there ISN'T much written/shown about the Draggulch Period so as to weigh you down with established lore; rather now you've the freedom to come up with your own...and it is AwEsOmE!!!  Maybe it's just that we haven't seen much from before in the Aethan Cycle concerning the world of the Technocracy before well after the Devastation but what we're seeing here just underscores how FAR things can fall, just how BAD things can get, how HORRIBLE the future(s) can be because of a seemingly innocent (perhaps not "innocent" but more "pedestrian") set of events that lead to utter calamity. 

And THIS^^ is why KNOWING the result of something does NOT have to take away from the story of HOW that something happened.

More "Sins" soon I hope  :)

P.S.  And another HUGE shout-out to LSG's visuals!  These are the PERFECT supplemental art that make this story THAT much more interesting  :D

 

“...and should trespass upon the blessed pure sands of the Hythian sea, the High-Phaeron, Mighty Tashkul shall invoke the Twin-headed God Amfersatsu to…”

Yn rolled his eyes leaning back into his command throne as the ‘warning’ came across the clanking old speakers.

The Malevolens Mictlanis hovered alone far from the gravity well of Albon, but close enough - in combination with the word of Yen's conquests racing down the Byss run at 0.5 past lightspeed - to draw out the High Phaerons fleet of 82 vessels…

They were fine looking ships in golds and blacks, he hoped to take some intact. 

As he understood the Albonites were only vaguely united under the High Phaeron in response to a threat, his Sith Shadows has found two dozen different Phaerons ruling the world, almost universally from palaces situated on Zerisium outcrops from which they mined the valuable ore and overlooked fertile equatorial oases that produced Cocoseae Nuts that were the true prize for his increasingly hungry Armada.

“...the Zerisium fists of Tlok’sa shall grind your bones, the evil eye of the Udjat shall be upon you…”

Idly looking around as the variegated threats and entreaties continued he saw no intelligence in the helots about the bridges consoles in the control pits, no humour in his Rab Kīššati, the Shipmaster, who kept a watchful eye upon said helots, and certainly no wit among the muscle and metal lugger-heads that were his Scythes.

“...the precious sweet waters of the Tllimin Oasis shall be as poison to the transgressor of the firmament of Tashkul….” 

Finally his eyes settled on his Tetan slave girl at the feet of his throne, her tattered white outfit now truly gone, yet she’d managed to scrounge a brown cloth from somewhere to cover herself as best she could. 

The cuts of the slave collar around her neck had healed leaving only an unfortunate but necessary callous.

“Do you believe this?” he asked her.

She remained staring blankly at the grimy floor.

A curl of irritation he yanked the chain around her neck.

“I said, do you believe the drivel coming from this nerf-licker?”

Now she looked up, at least she didn’t cry so much now, but she still looked forlorn.  Such ingratitude from the favoured pet of the soon to be Lord of another world.

“No, Dominar,” she whispered.

“Do you think I am afraid of the Curse of Ahotep, or the Rage of Tashkul?” he asked

“No, Dominar,”

A low chuckle rumbled in Yn’s chest.

"Good. You’re learning, aren’t you?" He tugged the chain again, a little more gently this time, a cruel tenderness in the gesture.

"They have only dusty gods and empty threats, no true power, no will. But we do, don't we? And this world will bend, just as you have."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though loud enough for his Scythes to hear, a perverse form of entertainment for them.

"I’ll tell you what, little Countess. I'll make you a wager. A personal one, between just you and I." He ran the sharp bladed metal of his armoured gloved finger lightly down her jawline, not quite enough to draw blood, but enough to cause her to flinch, her gaze still empty.

"I will break this fleet, with my flagship alone. No Tiamats, No overwhelming barrages from a dozen E-Temmen-Ankis. Just the Malevolens Mictlanis and my Will. What do you say to that?"

Eidea remained silent, her eyes darting between his face and the floor.

"Playing coy?" Yn's grin widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Let’s make the stakes clear.

If I lose you’ll wear silks of the High Phaerons Queens, bathe in ‘sweet water’, and have her hand maids bedeck you in the finest jewels they have, pamper and preen you for my pleasure."

He watched for any flicker of hope, any desperate spark in her defeated eyes, and saw the barest hint of it – a fleeting vision of release from the squalor if not his dominance.

"But," he continued, lifting her chin with a firm grip, "if I win…," his voice a low, confident growl,

"You will wear the hide of the High-Phaeron himself, flayed from his body. You will drink from his skull, and you will be bathed in the blood of his slaughtered priests. And then I will use you like the filthy little wretch you are now. No more meager cloth for you, little Countess…" he added with a grin

Eidea’s fleeting dream of just cleanliness, now hung by a thread and was mingled with dread that even if she won, she would face his rage at losing.   

This was the true pleasure: not just the crushing of the enemy, but the systematic dismantling of the spirit.

It was why, regardless of if he killed the Phaerons in orbit and those below surrendered, he would still sack their citadels, still rampage across their lands.

Every planet, every being had to be broken in its own way, no illusions of resistance, no glimmer of hope, or spark of resistance. The old phaerons, kings, priests, gods whatever had to be shown to be utterly impotent and every choice that was not obedience and fear had to end in death. 

He reveled in the subtle tremor that ran through her body, the barely perceptible tightening of her jaw.

A low, guttural laugh erupted from his throat, echoing through the bridge. He looked out at the approaching fleet, their golden and black hulls gleaming defiantly in the distant sunlight.

"Prepare a reply for the High-Phaeron," Yn commanded, his voice now booming with contempt.

"Tell him that Lord Yn, Incarnatio Tenebrarum, Dominar and Master of all he Surveys, welcomes his pathetic threats.

Inform him that his 'Twin-headed God Amfersatsu' will soon have a third head – the one I cut from his shoulders. I will piss in the 'precious sweet waters of the Tllimin Oasis' and quench my thirst with the tears of his fallen queens while I ravage the daughters of every Noble house.  Tell him the tongues of his Chief priest will wipe the filth from my Tetan whore after I’ve torn it from his blasphemous mouth.

Your gods are dust and your days are done."

He leaned back, a dark satisfaction spreading across his face. "Send it. Unencrypted. Let the every Phaeron know what awaits them when a true master comes to call."



The High Phaeron sat upon his throne surrounded by his Queens and Concubies observing the massive, but lone, vessel before him, incense wafting as the Priests invoked the gods to strengthen the vessels that bore their images as masthead, and deter the interloper.

Yet…behind the kohl black of his dark eyes and beneath the oiled olive skin Tashkul held strong doubts.

Refugees had been passing through the system for weeks, fleeing Teta, Keeara, and now Malignon - the stories all the same, an unstoppable, immense tide of warriors as if spewed from the Pit of Ammit.

Already his brother was gnashing to use it as a chance to portray him as weak and unseat him, for this reason Tashkul forbade his brother joining this engagement…he couldn't let his brother….

Thoughts of the politics of Albon snapped shut as the enemy vessel began to accelerate straight toward them, the enormous crass rusty dark hull suddenly alive with roaring orange furnace engines.

His Medjai guard in desert cloaks over Zerisium plate shifted uncomfortably, their vibro-scimitars at the ready but impotent in space. 

“See the fool rushes to his death, Mighty Sutekh has clouded his judgement!” the Chief priest declared as the ship master looked to Taskul, the High Phaeron nodded, and the shipmaster issued orders to the other Phaerons to spread to surround and, with concentrated fire, destroy this interloper.

The Ship master was canny though, he would hold back reserves, just in case.

The Malevolens Mictlanis kept picking up speed, Eidea shuddering at the disturbing sounds of the vessel seemingly about to suffer some kind of loss of integrity, Yn leaning forward eyes glowing yellow as if we were, through some magick, meeting the gaze Tashkul across the void.

Sweat dripped down Tashkul’s brow, the slaves fanned harder to cool him, stirring the incense and perfumes of his women, Yn raised his hand swaying his fingers gently feeling for the right moment.

“Dur-Muqattil…” Yn addressed his Uruk-Nab chief engineer “...open the heavens,”

Pointed bow first at the re-positioning Albonite fleet there was a mighty roaring whoosh as side thrusters of the E-Temmen-Anki were engaged, drowned by the crack of whips and wails of helots to make it so.

Tashkul nearly stood in shock as the 5 kilometer long intruder vessel suddenly all but spun on its axis, swinging its enormous side to face the bulk of the Albonite fleet.

Deck upon deck along the port side of the Malevolens Mictlanis came into view, multiple levels of with rank upon rank of cannons and launchers of all types protruding, black and cold, contrasting the starboard that was roaring with thruster heat to perform the spin.

The Malevolens Mictlanis heaved and groaned but it turned nonetheless, Yn gripping the arms of his throne as if his sheer Will alone were keeping the hull from being shorn apart by the vast forces the engines were inflicting upon it.

Perhaps it was.

His eyes flicked to consoles before him as the helots in the trenches grabbed to anything to stabilize themselves as the Heavens were opened.

The dark port side of the E-Temmen-Anki was suddenly lit with 82 cannons and launchers unleashing a roadside against the Albonite vessels, fire power enough to rip a Tiamat Destroyer to shreds.

The Albonites ships were vessels of Prestige- ornate, sleek - built to impress and intimidate.

The E-Temmen-Anki was a weapon of war - blunt, brutal and thick - built to endure and destroy.

It now did both.

Moloch Cannon fired superheated durasteel shot, preceded by Lamashtu Needle beam cannons of starling green that drained shields quickly, the furnaces of the E-Temmen-Anki able to push as much energy into each beam as the High Phaerons vessel used in a week.

The Deities of Albon could not save ten vessels from being instantly shredded to so much metal and flesh burning in the void till all oxygen splayed out in fragmented clouds, eight more crippled as the first board side died down.

The Albonite response was pathetic, their rapid firing cannons grunted off by the E-Temmen-Anki Abgal's Ward shield system, the few zones where there was a breach of localised shielding resulted in little better than cosmetic damage on the thick plating.

“Realign, target those incoming!”  the Albonite shipmaster yelled as he saw, approaching as fast as the solid shot, dozens of boarding torpedoes vomited from Udug-hul' launchers - every one of them aimed at the High Phaeron.



The boarding torpedo was a metal coffin, hot and reeking of recycled air and sweat. Jol was jammed shoulder-to-shoulder with a dozen other Sith Swords, the durasteel walls pressing in like a tomb.

Jols Sigil throbbed a familiar, cold ache on his hand, a constant reminder of his new purpose. It was a stark contrast to the aimless rage that had once fueled him.

Now, there was a focused intent, a predator's calm. Yet he felt the Darkside whisper that today, that rage would serve him again…there was a ‘balance’ to be had between the heat of rage, and the ice of predation.

"Hold fast!" the lead Sword, a hulking Crolute named Bargul, with a scarred face, growled.

The torpedo shuddered violently, then again, a grinding, tearing sound echoing through the cramped space.

They were ramming the High Phaeron’s ship tearing through the hull with brute force.

A harsh klaxon blared, then the hiss of rapidly equalizing pressure.

The forward hatch irised open with a metallic groan, revealing chaos. Beyond, the vacuum of space gave way to the pressurized corridor of the enemy vessel, already a maelstrom of violence.

The Imhullu Host had gone in first.

Lord Yn's disciplined personal guard, were a tide of black armor and crackling blades.

They were already engaged in a brutal melee with the Medjai, the High Phaeron’s elite guard.

The Medjai were an odd sight: flowing desert robes, but beneath them, glinting plates of Zerisium armor, they wielded wickedly curved scimitars, moving with a fluid, sand-dancer's grace.

Jol watched, a strange detachment settling over him.

The Imhullu were methodical, fixed in their phalanxes, Nergals-tooth hyperosnic polearms thrust forward only when a certain opening was spied, their Anzu Aegis shields overlapping and deflecting the the Medjai's frantic slashes.

The Medjai fought with a fierce, almost desperate loyalty, their guttural shouts mixing with the sharp clang of metal. But they were losing ground.

Their formations were breaking, gaps appearing in their desperate line. 

An Imhullu snapped a shot with Pazuz’s whisper, the heated plasma pistol taking down one Medjai that had been giving them trouble, then with a disciplined pivot the Imhullu made a deliberate opening in their ranks

"Now!" the lead Sword snarled.

Jol moved. This was their purpose. They weren't the blunt force; they were the surgical strike. He and the other Swords poured through the breach the Imhullu had created, crimson sabers igniting with a hiss, casting lurid red light onto the dust-choked corridor.

The heat of the rage took Jol as he plunged into the Medjai, the rabid sense familiar and yet new to his Sigil Thrall form,

“YN CHA” he bellowed as the silent Imhullu first broke, then shepherded the Medjai to them, the Swords the Hammer, the Imhullu the Anvil.

It was a slaughter.

The Medjai, focused on the armored might of the Imhullu, were caught by surprise. Jol’s blade was a blur, cutting through robes and Zerisium alike.

He didn't waste a thought on the screams, the gurgles, the sickening thuds. His Sigil pulsed, a cold flame guiding his strikes, separating the defiant from the broken even as his Rune drove him to seek opponent after opponent

He moved with an almost elegant brutality, leaving a trail of dismembered limbs and headless torsos, feeling the Dark serenity of the blending of Rune and Sigil.

They repeated the tactic as they defiled the ornate gold laced interior section by section, the void outside chaos as the Albonite ships fled, stood their ground or skirted the battle depending on the nature of the Phaeron commanding - all co-ordination was shattered by the pounding of the E-temmen-Anki.

The Imhullu would break the Medjai  line, then the Swords would surge through, widening the breach with terrifying efficiency, pushing deeper into the ship.

Each time, the stench of blood and burning ozone grew thicker, the screams more desperate.

The Medjai, despite their courage, were being carved into pieces.

Finally, the floor changed. From the rough, utilitarian deck plating, it shifted to polished stone, ornate carvings covering the walls.

They had reached the command deck. Medjai here were thicker, their resolve chillingly absolute. They knew this was their last stand.

"Clear the way!" Bargul commanded, pointing towards a massive, carved door.

Jol was at the forefront driven by his Rune need to spill blood for Lord Yn, his saber singing with power.

A Medjai, bulkier than the rest, clad in shimmering, almost golden Zerisium plates, lunged at him.

His scimitar, larger than most, sang through the air. Jol parried, the Force whispering of danger. This one was different.

The Medjai was a blur of motion, his scimitar a whirlwind of steel, pushing Jol back.

He was strong, surprisingly strong, deflecting Jol's precise strikes with practiced ease. Jol felt a searing pain as the scimitar grazed his arm, burning through his rough incomplete Reaver Guard.

The cold calm of his Sigil flickered for a moment, replaced by a surge of pure, primal rage as the Rune took hold.

He pushed back, pouring the Dark Side into his blade.

Their duel was a contained storm amidst the wider chaos.

The Medjai chieftain was a master of his weapon, his blows heavy, designed to disarm and crush.

Jol relied on speed, precision, and the unpredictable nature of his Dark Side strength.

He dodged a sweeping cut that would have taken his head, then thrust his saber forward, aiming for a chink in the Zerisium. The chieftain deflected it with a grunt, then slammed his scimitar hilt into Jol's unprotected ribs.

Jol gasped, the air knocked from his lungs, a sharp crack echoing through him. He tasted blood.

Not like this. Not here. the dark whispered only truth to him

He unleashed a raw burst of the Dark Side, a wave of pure hatred that slammed into the chieftain's mind.

The Medjai recoiled, his eyes wide for a fraction of a second, his movements faltering. It was all Jol needed.

He spun, bringing his remaining saber in a low, powerful sweep, severing both of the chieftain’s legs at the knees.

The Medjai screamed, falling to the ground, his golden armor clattering. Jol brought his blade down, ending the fight with brutal finality.

The great doors to the bridge were now open, blasted inward. The last few loyal Medjai inside were being cut down. Jol, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ribs, stalked onto the bridge.

The High Phaeron, a regal figure in robes of scarlet and gold, oiled bronze skin stood defiant behind a crumbling command console. Beside him, a wizened Chief Priest, his face contorted in a mask of terror and fanaticism, was babbling threats, his voice cracking.

"You fools! The gods of Albon will not suffer this sacrilege! The Ra-Amun will burn you! The Sacred Waters will drown you! You will perish! Perish in fire and dust!"

The High Phaeron met Jol's gaze, his eyes filled with a weary resignation. He drew a ceremonial dagger, a thin, curved blade.

A futile gesture.

Jol didn't hesitate, he at last felt the balance in his Sigil and Rune - and hurled his saber - burning rage powering the telekinesis to make it move faster than sight, cold precision guiding it to strike true.

The High Phaeron’s eyes widened slightly as Jol's blade cleaved cleaning through his neck, before it toppled to the ground to be joined with the Twin-headed God Amfersatsu as Lord Yn had promised.

For thus was Lord Yn’s Will spoken, so it was Jol’s privilege to shape the universe to that Will.

The Chief Priest shrieked, then crumpled, his babbling cut short by a strike from one of Jol's fellow Swords.

Jol stood over the fallen Phaeron, the hilt of his saber hot in his hand.

The pain in his ribs was a dull roar now, but his Sigil throbbed with a cold satisfaction.

The ship was theirs.

Albon would soon follow. And he had taken another step on the path Lord Yn had marked for him.

Jival had been wrong.

The general assembly of all members of Project Aephrodaea in the blue-white lecture theatre of the Katarr Hall, the largest of the above ground buildings of the Genos Ziva, had been expected.

The name of the appointee to lead the project had not been.Dr. Evyn Resa Kranel, the gen 29 who seemed certain to take the position at the back of the hall emitting only the same faux curiosity as the rest of the six hundred or so staff in attendance.

Moran Byj Piron stood hands outs stretched to accept the Directors Sangrilith Triquetra pin from Anderis himself - it would give him full access to Project Aephrodaea’s work.

Jurahl looked on, standing at the back beside a sheepish Jival, both of them perplexed, yet also sensing a certain smugness in Anderis, the Gen 24 High director less able to conceal his aetheric aura from higher generations. 

Jival was astonished that her information ‘pumped’ from senior members of the directorate had been wrong, Jurahl, astonished that Moran was alive, let alone showing his face.

Doctor Moran Byj Piron was not a famous figure, but not unknown. 

One of the first Generation 28’s, he had been a senior member of Project Aethenaea, but since it’s official ‘Pause’ some 22 Orbitals ago he had not been heard from or seen from since.

Not a single article or peer review, not a letter to any of the Prime Journals, or even the ‘open secret’ hand delivered clandestine unofficial research publications operating just within the Directorates tolerance for diversion of resources.

Everyone at the time had been perplexed why a third Aethanaean was not created, Aethena was a byword for success, an avatar of progress, Valence proved that Gen 30 could be successfully implemented with Double Y crhomosones…everyone expected a third (or indeed a whole generation)…but none came. 

Officially the reason was the prohibitive resources required to synthesize the unique Uranium-238-Tetrairon-Phospholipid Complex the Gen 30s required - crucial to their significantly enhance mitochondrial nuclear fission - nearly 30% more efficient than Gen 29. But the Directorate of Nutriology was still unable to engineer its ‘natural’ occurrence in flora or fauna through the food chain.

Many suspected this was not the only reason, yet even Jival had never been able to ‘extract’ the truth from anyone.

Jurahl had suspicions they had been unable to grow a third to maturity - the timing coincided almost exactly with the population wide reduction in overall fertility, but he had no evidence.

Frankly it mattered little, he had what he needed from the Generation 30’s - Atlantiades and 32 was the future.

The problem for Jurahl, as Moran took the lectern was, Moran was known as a shrewd operator in his day, his features oddly aged…and more essentially Why Him? Why Now?

Jurahl glanced over to Jival, her eyes already fixed on Moran below as the rest of the 617 scientists awaited his instruction. 

Jurahl need not say a thing to Jival, her loyalties were to Gensis Deus and Atlantiades.

If only to assuage her own curiosity, she would seduce Moran and extract the reason for his ascension.

“Colleagues, fellow Members,” Moran began stepping to the lectern, a glorious radiant statue of Aethenaea behind him to remind all of the glorious final goal of Gensis Deus, a sight marred by Moran’s voice tainted ever so slightly - only barely noticeable to the Gen 28 and 29s - with that hideous thing called ‘ageing’.

“I am humbled by this appointment to what is the most critical of Directorates, ensuring Gensis Deus continues its golden path…” his tone genial now turned to steel as he all but rode the lectern leaning upon it unusually heavily as if he needed it support his weight. .

“...However…for too long this Project has fumbled and failed, the failure to address the fertility crisis is a blight on each and every one of you! I have audited the resource reconciliations and it is clear that many of you are directing significant resources to private projects,”

Jurahl remained ice cold as Moran went on.

“I am not averse to such ‘entrepreneurship’ IF it delivers results. Within three months, I want every single womb on this planet filled, ideally with twins or triplets.

You will have full access to the Biometric Census and the Department of Apportionment will ensure whichever female Members you wish to impregnate based on analysis of highest likelihood of success for artificial insemination are delivered to you promptly,”

Jival squirmed ever so slightly at the thought of actually having to bear a life within her rather than just enjoying the process to achieve that end.

“Whatever private projects you have been working on now is the time to use them. Submit your proposals to me directly.  I will be reviewing all extant programs in detail over the next few rotationals and am not to be distributed under any circumstances.”

If Jival didn’t know better Moran, was speaking directly to her, and the other ladies of the Genos-Ziva who used their ‘Aephroadaea’ blessed pheromones to further their work.

Jurahl might’ve smiled were he not above such petty acts of facial expression.  Atlantiades time had truly come.

   


“Why Moran, when Grathoss is already asking questions, why not a 29 to placate him,” were the first words from Director Essea Nal Ghrass’ mouth after the door to the High Directors office had sealed shut and he had activated the an Aetheric Environmental Emission Suppression to ensure their conversation was private.

High Director Varo Khys Anderis raised a brow very intentionally

“You're the last one I expected to encourage appointment based on gene generation alone,”

“We have no time for meritocracy,” she replied coolly well aware of the betrayal of her own principles it would have entailed

“There I disagree, I needed someone I could trust because Grathoss is getting close.  Moran is a knot Grathoss won’t be able to resist dedicating his efforts to untangle, it will delay him long enough for you to find a solution to the Uranium-238-Tetrairon-Phospholipid Complexes problem, and these Sith to be dealt with.”

“You think Moran can handle Grathoss,”

“I never lost faith in him as you did,” Anderis said evenly as eidetic recall of events of 22 Orbitals back tingled at his 5th conscious layer having already subsumed his sixth.

“You never had faith to lose Varo,” she retorted, gaining a wan smile in return.

“Did She agree?” Essea moved on to avoid further recriminations waylaying their limited time.

“Aethena stated no objection when I enabled his Credentials to Director level,”

“I’ve warned you before Varo, her silence is not the same as agreement, you risk much by assuming it is,”

Anderis leaned forward

“Every decision I make as High Director I risk the entire Program, I have Faith She will not allow me to make a serious misstep that imperils the Program,” he curved back into his chair

“...and I will accept my fate when my services are no longer required, as should you,”

Essea didn’t take the bait, she didn’t believe a word Varo said.

She had known him too long for that. All she did know was if he was relying on Aethena’s protection from Grathoss, he was a dead man walking.

But he was correct in one thing, Moran, if he hadn’t already, would draw Grathoss attention very soon - Moran had that effect whenever he emerged from the shadows.

“I still have much to contribute,” Essea noted

“We’ve begun testing a new chain for the U238 in the Valley of Aephrodaea…it begins with extremophile protists on the deep sea vents that already take in U238, works through the Voabyss crustacean-cephalopod hybrid up the aquatic food chain via viperfish, six different sea-bird and to Voterris stalkers then Vorynx, by that time the lipid is developed and encased ready for our predation.”

Anderis considered the sequence

“It won’t be at very high levels by then,”

“It can infiltrate the broader ecosystem from there, the encasement should allow it to pass unmodified through carrion to fungi, to flora, over time sufficient levels will build up - in that Valley at least,”

Anderis nodded fingering one of the larger black orbs on his desk,

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy telling Grathoss of your success,” he noted

“I get no pleasure from outsmarting that petulant child,” she placed the tap pad she had been crying on his desk

“The request for the additional resources to complete this new test sequence,”

Anderis began looking over it well aware of the competition for men and material as Kestis asked for more.

Essea strode out readopting a mask of perfect control and confidence, but paused at the door,

“I look froward to the next Directorate meeting, Moran and Grathoss in a room…you’re trying your luck, Anderis,”

 

Groggy and bleary eyed, Eileithyia pressed herself up from the scattered pillows and sheets of the floor, running her regrown tongue around the familiar hollow of her mouth, teeth all accounted for once more.

She stank of dried blood, soured Cream Emulsion and her own waste.

Her full suite of six conscious levels realigned slowly into their regular order as the red glow of  Aetheric Geno-reversion died down leaving her room completely dark.

Not that there was much to see, the temporary accommodation of the overseer of the builders of this section of the Resonance Cascade rail millenia before, it was long since forgotten but as with all things made of the dense ores of Aethas still perfectly intact.

The exact sequence of how she got back to the miserly home shuffled through her upper consciousness - the long walk down the maintenance shaft, grasping the end card of a passing Cargo module, switching at the Gaia-Ziva Nexus to Alixandraea…

Then the seemingly endless walk here, opening the refrigerant closet and taking every single bag of Culum Cerealate, each pouch of mixed Folia Matrix and Starch Tuberoid, guzzling down the litres of Cream Emulsion, eating uncooked the Protein Isolate and Extract Nutrient steaks and portions.

Oddly Mentor hadn’t been there when she got back, no doubt snooping about somewhere in his insatiable drive to know everything about everyone.

Healing was not difficult for Aethans since Generation 25, they could regrow any body part, facilitated by cellular conversion to stem-state at injury sites and super-sympathetic responses that repackaged nutrients absorbed into supply-vacuoles sent rapidly through the blood stream to supply said rapidly dividing stem-state cells.

It only took time and nutrients, and could be massively accelerated by the aether, a skill every child learned at 5 Orbitals…Not that there are any children left to teach her fourth conscious level idly mused.

Ticking off the time elapsed according to her internal bio-chronometer she had taken 8 Rotationals to recover after her gorging.

Recovering…only to the same failed state I was in before

Pushing herself up she shuffled to the door, squeaking as it hissed open to the small common room and its single chair and table, Mentor sat waiting for her, his cane in hand as always.

He no doubt could smell the stench wafting off her, but did not seem to care.

“Did you kill the Sith that did that to you?”  was his first blunt question

She didn’t know why she had expected any sympathy or concern for her wellbeing after being passed out for the last 8 rotationals.

“Yes…” she sighed, walking past him toward the Sanitation-Cubical leaving wet footprints she knew she would have to clean later.

“Should never have gotten to that point, you ought to have wiped the lot of them out!” he criticized jabbing at her with his cane.

“You didn’t see what they were like, they nearly killed all of us.” she complained

“And whose fault is that? You’re Generation 30, you’ve no excuse,” he went on chastising, leaning forward.

She could argue back, she could tell him how deadly the real Sith, not the hordes of chattel they concealed themselves behind at first, were. 

But it was pointless.

She’d get back at him her own way.

She opened the Sanitation-Cubicle and peeled off the remnants of her soiled Aegis-Weave.

Seeing she would not engage further he grizzled.

“I need to restock everything now,” he complained pointing the near empty refrigerant closet

“Make sure you’ve cleaned your room by the time I get back,” he finished pushing on his cane to help him stand.

She ignored him and closed the door, the hyper pressurized-steam jets blasting the debris off her skin an instant later with near boiling water mixed with cleansing surfactants.

Eileithyia decided then she’d take her own trip out as well when she was clean, Founder knew she deserved it.




“We cannot waste a moment,” Jurahl burst as soon as the door to their lab sealed behind them.

“We need to immediately bring Moran over to our side, knowing his reputation we will need something very tangible to show him,” Jurhal strode forward idly picking up the group mind of the other members of Atlantiades as he gazed up at the still silent form of the Generation 32 in the gently bubbling Kolto tank before him.  The unsightly 31 hidden from view.

He paused to contemplate

“Every womb filled…what if every womb were filled with a zygote procured from Atlantiades! An exponential leap in progress,”

“Could a Gen 28 uterus even accept a 32 zygote let alone support it to maturity,” Jival questioned sliding over to their main desk idly glancing on the recent readouts, paying little attention to minor cognitive fluctuations in the pristine vat grown 32, all within normal margins for error.

She lifted the hefty print copy of the Caldoth codices.

“It was difficult enough stimulating growth in a gestation tube, let alone the bio feedback of a real womb,” she noted flicking through the pages even as she felt Jurahl mind working in their professional linked group mind.

“Adjustments would need to be made on both sides and very precisely,”

Jurahl took a seat beside her his mind racing with the possibilities.

“Modifications to the Zygotes outer cell wall latching proteins to be compatible with 28 uterine bedding…” he noted half in spoken words half pure telepathy 

“...and to the bedding itself - partial adjustment on both sides to ensure implantation…” Jival added again mostly unspoken as she scanned the pages, Jurahl lifting a recent failed but still steady zygote in a stasis tube and using to effect minor Aetheric Biotic Transfiguration and Aetheric Molecular Reassemblage to the cell wall as Jival had just suggested relying on his eidetic memory of the difference between 28 and 32 cell wall proteins on this test.

“...stagger the resource intake, a longer gestation to account for 28 slower placental input against 32s needs…” Jurahl continued recalling expertly the vast nutrient inputs vat growing each Atlantiades phase had required. 

As controlled as vat growth could be, the resources needed were just too extreme to ever be done on an industrial scale.

“...hormonal feedback suppression to ensure the 32 embryo doesn’t trigger immune response, especially for mixed pheromones which will flag aberration,” Jival noted the intensity of Atlantiades dual set of male and female pheromones

“..we will need to begin harvesting gametes from 32 immediately, stability is still only 50 per cent…but the Caldoth Codicies will guide us…additional combinant centrifuges, stabilizing fluids, micro injectors and extractors, our stocks are low…and a test womb…”

“...I can find a willing subject…and secure the resources from my source…” Jival finished eyes fixed on Atlantiades, their legacy to, and leap forward for, Gensis Deus.

“Pull it out!” Darth Kael screamed, her voice a raw rasp above the howling desert wind, as another Gugalanna Cannon toppled backward into Albon’s shifting, treacherous sands.

Ahead, the imposing Zerisium cliff face loomed, crowned by the former High Phaeron’s Citadel. This stronghold overlooked the Fayyum region, the most verdant and prolific growing area on the planet for Cocoseae—the nutrient-rich nuts that alone made this dustbowl a worthwhile fief. Kael needed those stores.

With grunts, heaves, and the sharp crack of Whipmaster’s lashes, the Cult of Nails’ Ghoul-skins righted the cannon, readying it to fire again. They were hammering the citadel’s lower doors with heavy, hardened shot. The bulk of the Citadel, and crucially, its vast stores of head-sized Cocoseae nuts, were sealed within the huge Zerisium outcrop, surrounded on all sides by life-giving oases. Despite the High Phaeron’s demise, his brother had not yet claimed the title, instead choosing to seal himself within these formidable walls.

Kael had burned out the drives of dozens of Carrion-Haulers and Flesh Barges to get her forces here first. She’d been denied Malignon, losing it to Xylos; she would not lose this world. Now, the planet’s second most valuable resource, Zerisium itself, was her main barrier. The doors rattled with each cacophony of cannon shots, but they showed no sign of budging.

Most of her artillery sat on the slightly firmer, ancient road leading to the citadel, various loading equipment and hover sleds pushed aside. The rest lay mired in the shifting sands of the rises beyond the floodplains. Her Sith Swords, a cadre of disciplined killers, flickered with frustration, denied the blood sport they craved.

Kael could sense the hundreds of Medjai within: a third loyal to the 'new' High Phaeron, ready to die defending him; another third, loyal to the old Phaeron, recognized the Sith as a common enemy; and the last third, paralyzed by fear for their families in the oases, were ready to flee to their hovels. Good, she thought. The Zealots of the Glass Sliver were already rounding up every soul they could find for her, stuffing Carrion-Haulers with every last load of Cocoseae.

With almighty cracks, durasteel shot slammed into the doors, spraying fine flakes of dust—a welcome, albeit brief, relief from the horrendous sun beating down on them. Kael loosened her helmet, sweat beading down her Zabrak horns. Her physiology, though resilient to heat, had been too long accustomed to the cold void of space, her only exposure to heat coming from her incessant regimen of blade practice.

She took immense pride in being one of, if not the, finest blademasters in the Armada. Her Swords followed suit, regularly winning challenges against other Darths' forces within Yn’s Host. Yet, these honed skills were, at this moment, of little use.

Another volley smashed into the doors, sending the faces and hands of ornate deity carvings tumbling onto the road. Occasional shots from Medjai Dart Rifles spat from sally ports, their weapons as ineffective against the Swords’ Reaver Guard and her own Annunaki Shell as they’d been in orbit. The odd shot felled a Ghoul-skin, but ten thousand more were waiting.

Around her, the Kallū chanted in their madness, their voices rising to a fever pitch, demanding the walls fall. One of the mad holy men suddenly shrieked, pointing out into the vast dunes of the desert. "A sandstorm approaches!"

Dark Side damn it! Kael cursed inwardly. She needed to breach that citadel. She had committed two-thirds of her forces to this assault and a dozen nearby citadels belonging to lesser Phaerons. She intended to seize and hold a cohesive network of the best farming regions before sunset. Lord Yn respected results. If she held the best citadels controlling the most productive oases, she would prove her strategic cunning, outmaneuvering the other Darths and seizing opportunity. This, she knew, would be rewarded with this world as her fief.

Finally, after the latest volley failed to budge the doors, she’d had enough.

"Swords with me!" she roared, summoning her Sigil-thrall hundreds. They pounded forward through the swirling sand, toward the thrumming roar of the approaching storm. Kael positioned herself between the cannons as they reloaded, the Ghoul-skins already beginning to choke on the increasing dust. Another reason to get inside.

"On my mark, Push and FIRE!" she directed, stretching her hand toward her Swords and summoning the Darkness within into a ball of crackling kinetite. Her Swords, instantly understanding, followed suit as the howling winds began to rattle the Gugalanna cannons, the flags atop the Zerisium cliff face whipping wildly.

"NOW!" she cried.

A hundred Swords and three score cannons unleashed their fury. Heated durasteel and concentrated Dark Side kinesis smashed the Zerisium doors, not merely opening them, but exploding them inward with deafening cracks. Pieces weighing hundreds of tonnes tumbled down, crushing the Medjai defenders behind.

"CHARGE!" she ordered.

Some of the Kallū, their madness amplified, were already running ahead of the Cults. "They come! They come!" one yelled, vanishing into the vast rectangular blackness as dart-shots fired out at them. The Ghoul-skins poured inside, their sheer tide of bodies overwhelming the Medjai. Those who dared to wield vibro-scimitars were swiftly cut down by her elite Swords.

Kael stood proudly as her forces flooded inside, relieved that the day, and this world, was now all but hers…

Then, sand exploded in her face and all around her, erupting not from the approaching storm, but from the ground directly in front of her. For a brief second, her eyes were full of coarse grain, the howl of the sandstorm and the exertion of the kinetic blast leaving her momentarily senseless for barely half a second.

That half-second was all that was needed. There were cracks, a strange vibration in the Force, and then—deaths, multiple deaths.

A fist launched at her neck.

Years of fierce training and Dark Side-enhanced reflexes had her tilt her neck just out of reach as she grasped her sabers and ignited them, bringing them up in a cross-sweep, intent on severing the hand that had reached for her.

Incredibly, it pulled away faster than she struck. The initial explosion of sand died down, but the gushing sandstorm continued, and through the swirling chaos, she made out a figure before her: an absence of light in humanoid form.


It launched at her with a sword. Kael caught it in her cross-guard, the distinct hum of her blades meeting an unnerving silence. The battle commenced.

Kael moved with predatory grace, a crimson blur against the shifting ochre of the storm. Her two sabers danced, a whirlwind of lethal intent.

She attacked with the fierce precision of a master duelist, seeking to overwhelm her silent, shadowy foe. He moved like smoke, his single blade a dark streak that blurred past her defenses, forcing her to rely on sheer speed.

She feigned a low thrust, then spun, bringing her left saber in a searing arc that struck his cloaked shoulder.

It seemed to do little if any damage, wherever material he was sheathed in resilient to the sabre.

He didn't flinch. Her opponent was fluid, relentless, and utterly without emotion. Every parry, every evade, was performed with the cold efficiency of a machine.

Kael snarled, pressing her attack drawing on her aggression, her frustration at being ambushed on the verge of victory.

His movements were unlike any opponent she had ever faced; no wasted energy, no tell, just pure, unadulterated effectiveness. 

This could not be some Medjai or other native…what was this?.

She roared, channeling her fury into a powerful overhead strike.

He met it, not with a parry, but a disarming maneuver that tore one of her sabers from her grasp.

It spun end over end into the swirling sand.

Enraged, Kael lunged, her remaining saber a desperate but perfectly aimed thrust.

He sidestepped with impossible agility, then, with a speed that defied her Dark enhanced senses, his sword swung up and straight through her wrist.

Her hand seemed to hover in place as she stared at it, before it fell to the ground, leaving a trail of blood visible on the sands that surrounded them.

She barely had time to register the sensation when a single, precise blow to her head, not meant to kill, but to incapacitate impacted.

Darkness exploded behind her eyes.

As she slumped, the sand seemed to swallow her whole, her last conscious thought the chilling realization that her defeat had been orchestrated with surgical, dispassionate efficiency.

Valence quickly knelt and held her up as the storm intensified about them. 

It was no natural strom.

He had buried the Kinetic Generating Aether-Plinth, along with himself and his squad days before into the sands of Albon - the Aethans entering a semi sleep for days and needing neither food for water for weeks it was no difficulty - silent and still exactly where their Aetheric Chronospection had told them the battle would be.

Producing the Eidetic Harvesting Orb via Aetheric-Dimensional Folding from his pouch, the Orb expanded to its true size.

Around him the Guardians, using the sandstorm, kept the Swords off him as he began the extraction.

Placing the Orb next to the semi-conscious Darths head he used the aether to create a bridge between her weakened mind and the Orb.  the hungry Noctilith device instantly began consuming her thoughts and memories - a silent feast of sentience.

A jolt, like a psychic electric current, coursed through Kael.

Despite the encroaching darkness, a primal alarm screamed in her fragmented mind. She understood instantly what was happening: her memories, her very essence, were being stolen.

It was a violation far deeper than any physical wound.

She tried to recoil, to pull away, but her body felt disconnected, heavy, lost to the sand.

Images, fragmented and distorted, flashed through her inner vision: the heat of her homeworld, the sting of a Whipmaster's lash, the taste of blood in a dueling ring, the chill of deep space, the roar of a Dreadnought's engines.

She tried to clutch them, to hold onto them, but they were slipping, like grains of sand through her fingers.

A wave of intense nausea washed over her. She mustered a sliver of her remaining will, a desperate surge of Dark Side energy, pushing back against the mental siphon. The Orb pulsed, and Valence's brow furrowed.

A thin, almost imperceptible line of crimson liquid, like tears, began to weep from the corner of Kael's eyes as cells in her frontal cortex began to rupture, spent and depleted.

The Orb was relentless, its pull inexorable. More memories flooded away—strategies, names, the faces of her lieutenants, the cold calculations of her ambition, converted to discrete parcels of data leaving her blank.

Valence registered Kael's last, desperate surge of resistance. It was notable, a testament to her inherent strength he had, however marginally, underestimated, but insufficient.

The Orb finished its task with a faint, satisfied thrum. He quickly detached it, securing the now heavier device in his pouch.

Around him, the sandstorm intensified to a roaring crescendo, blinding and deafening the remaining Sith.

"Withdraw!" Valence transmitted telepathically to his team. "Fall back to rendezvous point Echo!"


The Guardians, disciplined and efficient, melted into the swirling chaos.

They had faced fierce resistance from Kael's Swords, losing three of their own in the brutal, close-quarters fighting, their Phirk armor unable to deflect every enraged saber strike.

Another Guardian was limping, a deep gash across his thigh, but he kept pace, grimly determined.

This time they were more cautious, taking their dead with them, guiding them telekinetically through the sand to the Paheron Glider, likewise buried.

As the last of Valence's team vanished into the maelstrom, the Aetheric kinetic generator beneath the sand began to fluctuate, then cut out entirely.

Its deactivation a Tartarus Sphere implosion grenade buried with it on a dead man switch.

The sand around the plinth was swallowed inward and compressed to a point by the Tartarus sphere detonation, Cultists left behind trying to secure a Gugalanna Cannon were sucked in, meshing their mass into a single point before the surrounding sand flooded in.

The artificial tempest, having served its purpose, began to rapidly dissipate, leaving behind only the natural desert wind and the scattered, broken remnants of Darth Kael's command.

From within the Citadel were cries of victory for the Sith.

Kael heard, felt and understood nothing as her eyes gazed vacantly to the clearing skies.

She called it the Fae-child.

It was blank and empty as some mythical child in an old tale, completely absent any malice or fear, it was just curious.

Impes stood in the Meditation Sphere just bride the Malevolens Mictlanis as the ground invasion began, Yn enjoying the High Phaerons women-folk having delegated the invasion to Darth Kael and Darth Vex, pitting the two against the other to see who could claim the most Citadels on the surface and make it their fief.

Impes meanwhile was stirring alchemical mixes of the Grey-Armours potent blood.  Much had soured over the days beyond use, but she had extracted enough to begin developing potent tonics.

And she also commenced her fourth connection with the Fae-Child.  Each time was a little easier to find, each time the ‘response’ stronger - grasping even, a babe's hand reaching for its mother.

Impes could not yet pinpoint its location on the galactic map, but she was getting much closer.  It was clear it was related somehow to the Grey Armours, how and why she couldn’t tell.

Perhaps they had imprisoned it? Perhaps they protected it?

Regardless, the mindless babe was brimming with raw potential and hungry to learn.

The first few interactions were tentative, the Fae child feeling out the difference between ‘self’ and ’other’, Impes gently guiding it to recognise and comprehend basic concepts ‘this’ and ‘that’, ‘one’ and ‘two’, even ‘here’ and ‘there’ to explain ‘distance’ and such.

It was taxing but progress was being made.

[This Being…That Being…OtherBeing Inside] It communicated in rough concepts that placed Impes within another being - the Meditation Sphere.

[Yes This Being is within another being]

I dislike this the Sphere pinched at Impes mind

The alchemy or the Fae Child? she replied away from her connection to the Fae-Child.

Both and you should too

[That Being…Far?] it enquired

[Very Far from You yes] Impes agreed

[You…Move?] it seemed to learn ‘you’ finally

[Yes I move toward you]

[This Being No move at all…Other Thing Move to This Being]

[What is Other Thing?] she needed to learn about what environment it was in

[....]

Clearly it didn’t have the vocabulary for what was occurring yet.

Impes sighed - more ‘mothering’ was needed - chanted another incantation on the potion she was brewing, then reached down and drew a smaller circle on a galactic map - itself within three larger circles as she very slowly narrowed on the Fae Child.


Caught up in his gamete extraction from ovary 3, Jurahl assumed the consternation on Atlantiades face was simply from the cell harvester needle, not an attempt to comprehend its environment for the first time since its artificial growth. 

 



A languid deep blue tinged sunset blanketed the columned plaza with the mountains thick shadow
as the crowds gathered.

Eileithyia kept to the deepest of those shadows as always, her glamor more than enough to ensure none saw her true face or awkward posture, but still she preferred to wait, even as anticipation built in her.

After all she had been through she needed some release, some distraction, and some way to annoy Mentor, and this would fulfil all those needs.

The white marble columned Hetairion, a rounded area surrounded on all sides except the entranced by slimline white-grey doors to small chambers, was filled with some four hundred Aethans seeking Precedenture.

Ever since natural fertility rates began to drop exponentially from Gene Generation 29, the Hetairions and Precedenture processes were imposed. Monogamous relationships were deemed inimical to fertility, to increase the chance of gestation every Aethan was required to engage in 10 conception attempts every 10 rotationals,at purpose built Hetairions, their details tracked and logged and repeat pairings with the same partner that did not produce offspring - and for Orbitals none had - discouraged.

The men in tight thin shirts that showed off their increasingly inhuman musculature, the women in flowing semi-transparent Chitons that offered glimpses of their figures to the keen eyed as they moved. 

The air was soon filled with a mist of pheromones,as the selection process for Precedenture began.

Their thoughts loud to Eileithyia she noted the same three board camps, those who saw it as a chance for physical pleasure, those who took it as a serious responsibility on behalf of the Technocracy, and those indifferently going through the motions to avoid the ire of the Department of Apportionment who monitored compliance. Of course depending on the day the same Aethan might be in any one of the three groups.

As with every evening the men largely stayed in place, awaiting the women's inspection and selection, memories of prior liaisons rich in third and fourth level consciousnesses, hoping they might finally be able to succeed in their part of the task and fertilize a womb or two that night.

A vain hope, even Project Aephrodaea dedicated to the issue had found no solutions better than the random chance of coupling Precedenture offered.

Eileithyia watched as pairs began to head to the nearby Precedenture Chambers, simply furnished rooms for a single purpose within.

A number of faces she recognised, one particular Gen 28 woman who always slipped into chamber 7, followed some time later by the same 29 man, a couple of 25s who always selected each other, two 28 men in friendly competition with each other, a bet riding on who would have a child first.

The predictable sequence repeated, the Generation 28’s paired swiftly, the 25’s likewise with their own, leaving the handful of 26’s and 27’s to mingle among themselves.

Gene Generations were not produced in even numbers, and leaps between generations often came swifter than expected. Generation 26 and 27 had only been produced for 40 Orbitals before being superseded by the far more successful Generation 28 making their numbers few.

There were others, a handful of 24’s of exceptional skill granted the privilege of Deferment from being declared Obsolete and harvested.

28’s naturally had no interest in copulating with a lesser generation, and 25’s trusted the slightly better probability of conceiving with their own generation, it left those in between with few options.

Now Eileithyia stepped forward, her hood thrown back revealing the false generation 28 face she wore so cooly, angling toward a generation 26 she had been with before, an uncomplicated man, average in every respect - and still more than she might deserve.

He recognised her swiftly as she approached, he was standing near a Generation 27 and his thoughts were clear he expected her to choose the 27.

Without a word she extended her hand to the 26.

His surprise was palpable in the aether, as was the 27’s, contenting himself the 26 had been chosen out of some curiosity or pity given all the 28’s were gone.

The 27 gracefully stepped away with a nod to the 26 as Eileithyia led him away to the nearest free Precedenture Chamber, the door hissing open and both placing their fingers on a bio-ident scraper to confirm the coupling.

Eileithyia used a tiny false flesh sliver over her finger she had micro-aether wrought from various gen 28 samples to convince the machine she was Gen 28, but the sample not quite detailed enough to line up with any specific Gen-28 on the Bio-Census.

The machine would attribute it to an QRNA analysis error and seek her manually enter details after Precendture was complete, for which she had over a hundred names and details memorised to enter to cover herself - her favourite was ‘Jival Pon Rrist’, the Gen 28 woman had so many Precendture trips one more would hardly be noticed, but Eileithyia had seen her sneak off earlier to meet with her Gen 29 companion so tonight she’d have to enter a different name.

They stepped inside - as always the chamber calibrated to 22 degrees Celsius, humidity of 45%, clinical and conducive to optimal cellular function.

Bios beds that moulded to one's figure folded down from the wall and translucent screens to monitor vitals flickered to life as the door closed.




Shuffling up Jival slid on her silken night dress, the flush of excitement dying down quickly as her lover mere moments ago pulled on his shirt on the bio bed beside her

Subtle biometric readouts pulsed on the translucent screens embedded in the wall, tracking their vitals, hormonal fluctuations, and neural patterns – all meticulously recorded for future analysis. 

They predicted a 82% chance of conception, Jival however well knew it was zero, her skill with  Aetheric Molecular Reassemblege easily turned to ensuring egg release was blocked to satisfy the requirements of her partner and herself.

The Precedenture was, however enjoyable for her, transactional as the rest of their relationship.

“You were wrong about Dr. Evyn Resa Kranel,” she said as he double checked his Precendutre quote had been met, ironic given He was the one who enforced it.

“I don’t need reminding,” Stinn Lek Grathoss replied bitterly, all charm he might show to others absent with his most frequent partner

“It makes me doubt the reliability of other information you’ve given me,” Jival went on, still able to admire the Gen 29 for his looks and skill at Precedenture if nothing else.

“Anderis is playing games, but his lead is slipping, meanwhile, this time Jival, it is you who will provide information to me,”

“Me?” she asked curiously “You’re the Director with an army of fichas?”

“And you are in the Directorate of Genehnancement, I want you to get close to Moran, find out why Anderis selected him, where Moran has been since Project Aethenaea ceased, and why it ceased,”

Jival permitted herself to frown slightlyeveryone knows it’s because they can’t make enough Uranium-238-Tetrairon-Phospholipid to feed more Gen 30s she thought

Grathoss Gen 29 senses easily heard those thoughts

“I am beginning to doubt that is the only reason,” Grathoss explained
“I could confront Moran directly, but you have a softer touch,”

“And why would I help you in this?” she asked, standing and brushing her hair back in place. Not at all mentioning that she already intended to turn Moran to her and Jurahls side.

“Because if you do not I will stop ignoring the material being diverted to Dr. Calrahn’s little side project and look into Dasturs ‘accident’”

Their arrangement was multilayered, Jival provided Grathoss with guaranteed Precedenture dates without risk of conception and any information she garnered from her other occasional partners…and she kept his little genetic secret

Though he was perfect in every respect, his Gen 29 RNA sequences essential for the furtherance of the Project…had a flaw - a rare genetic recessive chain that if passed on would cause likely insanity in any offspring.

He hadn’t told her of course, after their first Precedenture she had realized something was amiss, noticing the curious if subtle aetheric means he used to prevent conception, on their next meeting she had assured him she wanted offspring no more than he did and their compact began. 

Unknown to him though she managed to sneak out some samples on their third meeting and using the Genos-Ziva lab assets uncovered his secret.

At their fourth meeting his Gen 29 telepathic superiority meant instantly understood she knew his secret thus altering their relationship once more.

In exchange for her silence and co-operation Grathoss ensured Jival and Calrahn’s misappropriation of assets for Atlantiades was ignored and provided his own intel on the workings of the Directorate.

It was hard to say who had more incriminating evidence on whom at this point - Grathoss knew Jival and Calhran were stealing equipment, and Jival was undermining the Precedenture system every night with her contraceptive methods - but he was covering for her and complicit in both activities.

“If you insist…but in exchange, I’ll need more resources…”

Grathoss considered disputing, but it would do no good, and regardless of all th failing Projects in the Genos-Ziva at the moment - Calhrans was as good as any other.

“Think a list on your fourth conscious level, I will see you get it the usual way, we meet again, here, in three Rotationals, I want meaningful results,” he added checking the bio-readouts with some mix of irritation and regret she didn’t understand.

She thought of the list of resources Atlantiades needed and Grathoss immediately swiped it from her mind.

“You know I always enjoy our post tryst conversations Stinn,” she added before she left.



For the brief moments enraptured in the mechanical affections of her Generation 26 lover, Eileithyia could block out the incessant thoughts of others all round them…

But she could never escape the need to conceal herself.

Slight outcast though the 26 was, if her Glamour dropped for one instant she knew what would happen.

For it had happened before.

When she was younger - lost in the enjoyment of the moment she had neglected her glamor - the baleful shout of disgust that followed haunted her still, necessitating mind blanking the generation 25 man instantly.

Too young she had done a sloppy job, wiping him of a month's short term memories.

She had never since failed to force upon her form the illusion of what she should’ve been, ensuring no lover's hand reached the more malformed parts of her figure to cause dissonance between sight and touch.

Partially distracted as she was, she lost the fullness of the experience.

“This is the third time you’ve chosen me…” he said after their coupling was done and he sat upon the side of the bed, idly glancing at the bio-readouts Eileithyia would carefully scrub later.

“I wonder why, being a 28 as you are?” he went on

There was no sentimentality in such Precedenture, only cold functionality.

“My work means I often arrive at the Hetairion too late for other options,” she lied, sitting up sweeping her hair back into a ponytail of cracked thin strands that mingled red with grey, unlike the lustrous velvet locks she had him see.

“You’ve proven reliable and enjoyable in the past at least….” that was honest

He nodded, accepting the reason without question, some understanding of what it was to be a second choice, an unwanted version, skipping across his mind briefly before ego-stabilization mechanisms long since embedded in Aethan cognitive schema’s refreshed him with memories of the handful of gen 26 women he sought out in other Hetairons. 

“My name is….,”

“...don’t,” she cut him off “I could look up the Bio-Census if I cared,”

She already knew who he was, it was part of why she had chosen him that first time for a dangerous thrill…

Her rejection was harsh, but slightly enjoyable for her, to reject someone else instead of being the one rejected.

He nodded showing neither disappointment nor relief.

That crushed the little thrill she’d just felt, and left a bitter taste in Eileithyia’s newly restored mouth.

She did like him. He had a warmth and genuineness that was different to other lovers she’d engaged with.

That was why she chose him the second and now third time, she needed that after the Sith, the race from the Karathos-Ziva and Mentors lack of any empathy.

But the need to maintain the glamour, and conceal herself meant she could never admit that.

She stood and gazed into the mirror, her indentation on the bio bed morphing back to flat as she pretended to brush her hair, wanting to apologise but knowing a Gen 28 never would be so kind to a Gen 26.

“Perhaps I will select you again,” was all she offered.


Mentor was waiting for her when she arrived back ‘home’, as always, he never seemed to sleep anymore, his aged figure upon his hard utilitarian omni-steel chair, his cane tapping on the ground.

“You’re wasting time. You think the Sith pause to copulate?”

“If they get the chance I’m sure they do,” she replied without expression in her voice.

“More successfully than Aethans based on their numbers…” she added

He always brought out her more snide remarks.

“Why waste your time and others' energies, you know you can never conceive?” he retorted harshly, stabbing at the very purpose for which she was created, to be the first mother to conceive and bear a generation 30.

Even if all her other imperfections were still extant, had she been able to do at least that she might’ve garnered something akin to respect for simple usefulness.

“Why waste your time, you know I can never be…anything...”

He leaned forward, his line etched forehead creasing into harsh diagonals of dry skin.

“You’ve never truly tried to be. You’ve all the same powers as Her, if you deigned to access them,”

“I was beaten near to death by the first Sith I ever encountered,” she snapped

“You escaped alive from your first ever battle against a hardened killer, that is a success,” Mentor growled leaning forward in a manner that made his eyes gleam red with whispers of Anzat blood.

“You know what you face now, you should spend every moment preparing accordingly.”

His face softened as his body fell back in his chair, fatigue settling on his brow.

“You disappoint me…every time you get so close….but fall short,”

She regarded his words and ragged form for a moment, before retreating to her rooms without a sound.

She had just finished cleaning the mess made of her room, grimly and mechanically when she sensed an approaching presence.

Fichas? she telepathically asked Mentor, quickly genuinely worried they’d found her.

No, come out girl he demanded.

Into the main room Eileithyia saw Mentor still in his chair and for the first time ever another Aethan in the room.

His phirk armour etched with three Sangrist stars on the shoulder indicating his rank, Noctilith blade sheathed at his side.

His face familiar and firm, desperately trying not to betray his disgust at her imperfection as soon as she appeared.

She would be pitiful if she weren't so ugly

Mentor rocking gently on his seat, the aged degenerating features also causing a surge of disgust in the Guardian. 

Old corpse should’ve been cleansed in Resolution a century ago

The primus gripped the hilt of his blade tightly, a reaction that mixed tension release with preparation to purge the unclean around him.

“Aethenaea Unit 3,” Guardian Primus Kestis addressed her, her name was more mockery than honorific given her sterility

“I will take you immediately to the Katharos-Ziva for deployment,”

He didn’t ask if she had recovered from the last mission or not, didn’t care.

“You will be tasked with utilizing a new experimental weapon against the Sith - this time be more cautious not to be detected afterwards,”

Eileithyia always knew there must be other members of the Directorate that knew she existed.

After all how could they not given 3000 Aethans died to create her on top of enormous research and resources…and how else was she supplied with the bespoke Uranium-238-Tetrairon-Phospholipid Complexes she needed to be provided.

Eileithyia was fairly certain as a minimum the High Director and Director of Nutriology and Ecology knew about her, they were the oldest after all…

Now the Guardian Primus…

But more than the Guardian Primus…

The man before her was Tahrn Jahn Kestis…

Generation 26.

The man she had slept with not three hours earlier.

The more that we learn about Eileithyia, the more her character seems closer to a human's.  Indeed, while she subscribes to the dogma of Genesis Deus and of Aethan superiority as a whole, she demonstrates more humanity--be it good or bad--than her contemporaries.  Her desire to belong, not just by way of a member of society but also as an individual, speaks of her uniqueness amongst the Technocracy.  Ironic given that she is, by all metrics of Aethan society, not just "broken" but anathema.  One wonders just what someone like, say, Guardian Primus Kestis would say, would act upon, if he learned the truth (nevermind that he, a Gen 26 is far outclassed by her Gen 30 no matter how "inexact" Eileithyia is).

But, in a way, that can expand outwards to encompass the entire Technocracy: consider that with their upgraded strengths did Soron Varas perhaps not consider that their "weaknesses" (e.g. hubris, bigotry, etc) would likewise be enhanced?  After all: we know that sometime in the near future relative to "Sins" the Devastation WILL occur.  Of course, if the Technocracy HAD been successful, Astra Purgio WOULD have burned throughout the galaxy.

Certainly the machinations of Anderis, Jurahl, Jival, et al. are at counter-purposes, each believing that they have the way forward towards the real actualization of Genesis Deus.  But where which each disparate thread lead?  And let us not forget that there are two "wild cards" even amongst the Aethans themselves with Aethenaea and Valance (awesome etymology of his name BTW)...

In the meantime, the legions of Lord Yn are making their way inexorably towards Aethas, overthrowing local planetary governments through superior tactics supplemented by seemingly limitless numbers.  Yn is somewhat singular in that he is more forward thinking than most Sith of the time: securing his supply lines, replacing his lost forces/reinforcing his armies with locals pressed into service, setting up his "loyal" Sith lord underlings with domains to reward them/protect his flanks.  Again: what might have happened if it was Yn and not Skere Kaan that had led the Brotherhood during the Ruusan Campaigns.

In the thick of the fighting, we see a more "boots-on-the-ground" vantage with Jol as he continues in his ascension from fodder to now Sigil-Sword.  Will he become one of Yn's Scythes?  Will he supplant his Dominar?  Or something else, perhaps from the realization that his lord inevitably has feet of clay?  One thing is for certain: none of them--not Yn, not Impes, not Jol--can imagine the ultimate outcome.

Meta-note: Excellent chapter LSG.  I love the battles; I can almost taste the dirt of the sandstorm.  And on Aethas: that is one dangerous place, a death world if ever there was one.  I can't wait for the next installments!

Oh, and AWESOME pics! 

Though it was midnight, the peak of Mount Varas was anything but dark.  The highest point on Aethas and home to the Oraculum-Ziva, it was lit by the cacophony of pulsing novae of the deep core filtered through a hundred nebulae left behind from stars that had long since brunt themselves into husks.

The effect was a kaleidoscope of green, pinks and purples against a back drop of ice yellow stars and the just visible icy swirl of the event horizon of the galactic core central black hole.

Of course Aethans saw far more, eyes able to see almost the whole electromagnetic spectrum, thermal senses under their eyebrows able to overlay heat profiles, and enhanced haptic-vestibular senses even able to vaguely sense the mass of nearby celestial objects.

And even beyond all that they felt the currents of the Aether itself, much like their ancestors - Lek’un and Anzat, had perhaps watched the Silent Voices of Anzat prime, and the Miraluka the tides of the ‘force’ on lost Katarr.

Precognitiates, members of the Directorate of Extrapolation at once witnessed these things, and at the same time ignored them as they headed from the Control Station to the six Oraculi built atop Mount Varas.

54 Aethans, 9 to a choir, cleared their minds for the nightly Chronospection.

Director Korlas Fir Onderant led her choir up the stairs to Oraculum IV, like all the others an elegant dome atop doric marble columns, the chill of the highaltitude air meaning nothing to them.

Inside each Oraculum was a Chonospection-Attuned-Obelisk, a 60 meter tall seamless piece of carefully carved and Aether enhanced Noctilith designed to focus and refine the Choirs precognitive skills.

“Viewing 18, 1019th Orbital, Full Choir, 81 Generation 23 through 28, All Obelisks Active,” the Oraculum Aethengineering attendant recorded, jotting down the notes and handing Korlas a tap-pad checklist showing all Aethengineering checks had been completed in advance of the nights viewing.

Buffering Sangrilith Orbs filtered, Noctilith Recording Orbs prepared to capture the Temporal viewings, Asporite reflective panels attuned to ‘reflect’ back unwanted temporal anomalies in the Aether.

The latter, Korlas worried, was an increasing problem. The more the Directorate of Extrapolation looked into the future the more…scarred? Torn? Used? Imperfect? Cluttered? The aetheric temporal landscape became. The Asporite cleansed the distortions , but she wondered for how much longer?

“Attune to 50 Orbitals,” she replied with straight forward instructions so the flow of her words didn’t stray as they so often did

The control attendant adopted a look of perplexity

“Director did you mean 5,” he was used to her words straying off topic and out of sequence with events, the occupational hazard of all the Precongitiates, even worse in her case as she personally led so many Chronospections.

“No,” she affirmed as much to herself as to him, “50,”

“Director…the Obelisks optimal range is 30 Rotationals to 20 Orbitals, such an extension while possible, could result in excessive strain on the Tachyon capacitors,”

“I understand all that,”

Of course she did, she had worked closely…so very closely…with Director of Aethengineering Chrell Cev Chronrim designing this latest generation of Obelisks

“...until he had betrayed me by sleeping with that little Gen 27 thing…or did he do it after I cancelled our relationship…either way I…” she paused realizing she was speaking out loud her thoughts, The attendant used to such slips paid it no mind.

“Apologies, I understand 50 Orbitals is correct, with the recent engagements against the Sith the High Director wants to expand the range of our precognition.”

Had Anderis said that? She could remember him saying it…the problem was she couldn’t tell if that had been in real life or in the future…he was harried at the time, worried…or maybe he would be…

“...either way it doesn’t matter, he’ll ask eventually…oh, apologies, 50 Orbitals,”

“I’ll make the adjustments,” the aethengineer replied on signalling his counterpart,

“It shouldn’t take long,” 

Every member of her choir, and the others in the five other Oraculum moved to their stations, grasping the Noctilith grips, flowing their minds toward the Obelisk, Korlas likewise let the concerns of such an extension go - such problems were for Chrell Cev Chronrim and his Aethengineers to address.

Faithless cur she cursed him in her sixth conscious level as she integrated her top 4 levels into the Precongitiaite Group Mind, guiding the six Choirs to blend their minds with the Obelisks, and in turn all six obelisks together.

Each Obelisk exponentially increased the precision of the Chronospection.

The regular gentle Chronspection warm up exercises began, all choir members stood hands tight on their Noctilith grips, blue aether energy pouring from and through them to the Obelisks.  Outside thick Aether energy waves connected the six Oraculum in gentle harmony.

Betray me…with a Gen 24… her annoyance continued.  Another one, first the 27 and now 24! her fifth level of consciousness picked up on the discrepancy

He denied it of course, but she was certain he had…or would…she wasn’t sure…now and then - vision and reality were difficult for her to distinguish….perhaps he hadn’t betrayed her yet, but he did eventually…didn’t he?

It did no good to dwell.

Her full attention diverted the Full Chronospection began.

Focus area [Sith] [War] [Aethas] [Danger] [Death] [Technocracy] she instructed the full choir telepathically on the 5th conscious level reasserting her focus.

Target Temporal area circa 50 Orbitals in advance of Anchor point she clarified as their minds untied and sharpened through the Obelisks pierced through time to seek information of the future.

Cluttered images and half realized realities scattered past their view, the images record on Noctilith orbs for later inspection by junior Precognitiates in case there was anything of note later.

As they moved ‘forward’ in time images, thoughts and emotions became more indistinct, and the number of ‘paths’ multiplied exponentially.  She kept the Chronospection focused on the clearest path, the most likely.

Yet even this was darkening, red…bloody…crashing tides of pressed sweating bodies, hulking machines weeping tears of molten durasteel in the glare of distant stars

She kept up the moment pressing forward into the unknown, leaving a trail of unfollowed paths behind her.

Strain built and ticked in the under cognition of the group mind, but…

They had barely reached 5 Orbitals ahead, she could ‘feel’ the distance her mind was reaching away from her body, the spin of the stars in their orbit and the zooming cycles of night and day….

The walls were closing though, the darkness growing there was a

A weight…a weight…dragging them down…over there! I see it…the Sith…their sheer bulk, they are heavy on the Aetheric Temporal planes, they are dragging Us, We’re climbing uphill, the slope is slippery and getting steeper!  Harder she cried, no I am crying, harder, we have to see!

What….

Ahead of them was a swirl a clash of a bright but all too finite red, shattering the indistinct objects in it as it tried to push forward but ahead…Ahead I see it I see…

A resounding crack pierced through Korlas ears, not on the plane of Chronospection, but at her physical level.

Her eyes opened to see violent yellow and blue sparks all around the Ocularam chamber, the aetheric boiling as the Obelisk before her slid down an enormous crack that had formed in its centre.

Buffering orbs exploded from the enconsements, one slamming into a Precgonitiates head, sending her to the floor, an Aporite panel collapsed on another. 

The Obelisk, crackling spewing lighting that burnt her skin began to fall….




“This was not natural…”

“You’re telling me!” Yn boomed as Impes stated the obvious

The pair stood within a large regal azure tent that had once belonged to the High Phaeron, on a cot before them Darth Kael, stripped from her Annunaki Shell, missing one hand, a large blow to the head that had cracked horns but no outward sign of what had rendered her brain dead.

Impes gave him a vicious look for interrupting, in the corner of the tent Eidea tried to make herself small, feeling the sickly wet of the High Phaerons skin rotting on her back.

Yn’s Scythes were on high alert all around them, and Yn had summoned Darth Seraph and Darth Vex, his experts in force rituals and Mind domination respectively.

The death of a Darth against such a pathetic foe was cause for a full investigation.

Impes hands wove above Kaels head as Vex stood eyes upturned in meditation.

“I meant the sandstorm…it was not natural…this was planned…well in advance.” Impes clarified

“I too can sense the thread of time being played with my lord,” Seraphs sweet voice agreed, the twi’leki woman once a shrine maiden was there for her expertise in dark rituals and spirit bindings that was complimentary to Impes own craft at times.

“Her mind wasn’t broken,” Vex spoke out of his trance, the former con-artist and smuggler Devaronian male always seemed too small of his Annunkai-Shell to Yn’s eyes,

“It was stolen, turned into knowledge for our enemies.  Everything Kael knew, the enemy now knows,”

Yn stood arms crossed taking in all he heard till the flap of the door opened a Scythe entering.

“Lord, we found this…”

The Scythe passed it first to another Scythe who inspected it, then Impes, then at last Yn.

A piece of armour with near black blood, dark grey and incredibly heavy for its size.

“Those Grey-Armoured creatures again…” Yn growled

“They have learned quickly from last time,” Impes noted

“So long as you are learning about them faster than they are learning about us,” was Yn’s uncharacteristically bitter reply.

Impes righted herself, slightly thinking briefly on the Fae-Child, but still deciding against telling her ally about it.

“They protect the vast power that drew us here, but they are not in full control of it,” she offered

“Have you learned anything from their corpses?”

“Nothing certain, but I am blending tinctures with their residues that should prove most powerful,”

Yn grizzled but didn’t reply, he had another invasion to plan , ships and soldiers to divide between his remaining Darths and the choice of who to give Albon to as fief.

“Come on,” he half snarled grabbing Eidea’s chain and dragging her out.



Eileithyia sat opposite him on the Phaethon Glider in uncomfortable silence.

The same silence that had pervaded their last six hours together on the Synaptic Web, through the Alixandraea nexus to the Katharos-Ziva, then the outer space dock node, now continued in the Phaethon Glider.

All that time she had dressed in standard Guardian armour to conceal herself, unnoticed beside the Guardian Primus.

The worst was when, while in the Resonance cascade rail passenger module Kesits had idly relived their prior night in the Precedenture chamber several times in this third level of consciousness, Eileithyia’s hyperactive Aethenaea cortex unable to block out his thoughts.

He felt genuine affection for her - or more truthfully -the Generation 28 disguise she had worn on each of their three encounters. 

He dreamed he might actually succeed in conceiving a child with her.

She didn’t know what to think. 

She knew he was the Guardian Primus before their first coupling.

It was a thrill - another secret defiance, to be so good at the glamors Mentor had brutally forced her to learn she could bed a member of the Directorate multiple times without them knowing.

A sense of superiority to use him for her own pleasure and dismiss as he would her if he knew the truth.

She never imagined she would meet him outside that context and feel the utter revulsion he had for her true self contrasted with the boundless affection for her disguise.

Founder what will Mentor say when he finds outs…but I don’t have to tell him…but damn that old wretch - he finds out everything eventually…

The ship bucked as it existed hyperspace, the Grade 2 Naquadah Flux Drive whirring to a stop as the ship repositioned for the next Jump along the Upper Elysian Route.

Kestis, face fully concealed by his helm, stood and headed to the divider to the cockpit, exchanging a few words about his concerns on the sound the Flux Drive was making, it was the pilots said only recently dusted off from storage. 

Kestis thoughts were bitter toward Director Olnerr and the Directorate of Void Transit and Inter System Exploitation that had denied the Directorate of Purgation resources for so many years.

The Guardian Primus decided to focus that annoyance on her.

“Do you understand the Device?” he said standing over her. 

Beside her was a 99 centimeter tall, 33 by 33 centimeter square Noctilith Plinth - it weighed over 3000 kilos due the extreme density of the ore, and exuded an aetheric presence that could only be described as hungry.

The instructions she’d been given in a Cognition-Schema Orb from the Department of Aethengineering were incredibly simple…yet manifestly complex.

Truth be told, even those who had made it were not certain it would work, what was certain was the immense Aetheric power needed to use it - that only several Gen 29s…or a single Gen 30 could accomplish.

“Yes,” she said in a monotone behind her helm.

There was vast risk in using this device for the first time, made exponentially larger by the fact it was to be used in a warzone.

Kesits knew this, and while Valence had naturally volunteered to attempt it, Kestis belayed him. 

Kestis could not risk his most prized warrior, and likely successor. Aethenaea Unit 3 however - and even himself - were disposable, especially as her entire existence was known only to himself and three other Aethans - Anderis, Essea and that decrepit old creature that cared for her.

“Are you capable of using it?”

“I can’t be certain, I will do all I can,”

His thoughts expressed neither confidence or doubt. He sat across from her as the Glider jolted into the next jump.

Kesits returned to reliving his liaison with her false self.

Eileithyia tried to ignore it, and focused on the Device that seemed to loom beside her and make the other 41 Guardians on the vessel uncomfortable - the Obeliscus Aetheris Inanis.

 

A quick breath of the frigid highaltitude air, Stinn Lek Grathoss vaunted up the stairs from the Resonance Cascade Nexus of Mount Varas to the Oraculum domes. 

He had already sensed the fractured temporal planes of the Aether half an hour out on the Passenger module, here they were like gouges in a continental shelf.

Aethengineers and Precognitiates were scattered across the stair ways and doorways, inspecting and discussing various broken components in the crisp morning sun, at the centre of them all their respective directors, Korlas Fir Onderant and Chrell Cev Chronrim, bickering seeming to the point of blows outside Oraculum IV, a whirlpool of intransigence and spite.

“…you pushed it beyond its limits!” Chrell jabbed his finger at Korlas

“The Obelisks were faulty, poor quality, lacking sufficient they won’t see it they are blinded by themselves!” Korlas replied in her only semi coherent fashion they were all used to from her muddled seemingly time agnostic mind.

Grathoss saw nothing more than two Outdated fools who had in their bumbling incompetence damaged precious Aether Obelisks.

“My fellow directors,” Grathoss said approaching, his white gormin leather coat sweeping in the high altitude winds

“Please explain exactly what happened here,”

Rather than waste time with words both Korlas and Chrell simply thought about their situation in the First conscious level allowing Grathoss to instantly harvest their perspective telepathically.

Korlas blamed the poor quality of the Aether devices that composed the Oraculum, from the Obelisks, to the capacitors, to the buffers, recalling an increase in breakdowns and repairs recently. Chrell blamed Korlas for pushing the devices beyond their optimal range too many times, the 50 Orbital demand simply the grain that broke the gormins back.

Grathoss well knew it was a combination of both factors.  Korlas and Chrell had been at each other's throats for Orbitals contributing further to this disaster.

This would be more than enough to draft a proposal for their dismissal for incompetence, along with Essea for the Uranium 238 phospholipid inefficiencies, and Kestis for the failure at Keeara; he now had justification to remove four of the seven outdated Directors. 

It left only Moran, Anderis and Qwanm - and Grathoss had plans to deal with them next.


“Setting aside the cause for the moment, how quickly can the Obelisks be replaced?”

“Aethengineering is a precision process, from mining and purifying the Noctilith to cleansing it of trace aether contamination then careful re-enforcement with desired aether properties, it cannot be rushed,” Chrell growled

“We produce everything from the smallest orbs to your Resolution daggers, we already had a back log before the recent extra demands from the Directorate of Purgation,”

“Kesits trinkets are of lower priority than the Oraculum,” Grathoss countered

“But Lady Aethena is above all,” Chrell responded

“Aethena and Valence provided designs and requested the manufacturing of a substantial number of new Plinths and Orbs to assist missions against the Sith - I’m sure you appreciate by the Article of Confluency I cannot refuse the order of a higher generation - some devices we could modify prototypes already in storage, others completely new builds,”

Grathoss could not argue with that, he certainly would not be questioning a Generation 30s direction on anything. 

“We do have four decommissioned Oraculum Obelisks still in storage, the others are already being broken down and recycled…they are past their prime effective life but they should suffice for an Orbital or so…repairs and installation however will still take more than 20 Rotationals,”


“And in that time we are all but blind to the future,” Grathoss growled

“On the usual scale yes,” Chrell confirmed

“But not completely, our eyes are not gone,” Korlas interrupted having during the whole conversation thus far been staring off into nothing as was typical for her.

“But severely reduced in temporal range,” Chrell growled unnecessarily emphasising the problem no doubt to annoy Korlas.

“See it done Chrell, Korlas I expect every co-operation,” Grathoss ordered, if not High Director he could still lean on being a Generation 29 to ensure compliance.

Their faces remained impassive but the aether and their lowest conscious level burned with annoyance.

Of course Grathoss well knew they wouldn’t co-operate.

He counted on it, it would make it all the easier to remove them both.

One of his link orbs began to emanate an aetheric pulse demanding his attention,

“I leave you to your work,” Grathoss dismissed, striding away to take the orb.

“Elsep Nal Kyrgos” He thought through the orb telepathically to her location at the Genos-Ziva

“You have a report on the unaccounted for Aethan on the Keeara mission,” his was a statement not a question

“After a thorough scouring of the Offworld dock resonance cascade transit node we found micro fragments of phirk armour and blood in a maintenance tunnel,” Elsep was straight to the point

“We have now completed analysis of the blood sample at the Geno-Ziva, Dr. Evyn Resa Kranel performed the analysis,”

Evyn the Gen 29 Grathos had pushed to be made Director of the Directorate of Genehancement, he was beyond reproach - after all he was Gen 29.

“Excellent, who was it and are you on your way to seize them?” Grathoss asked

“Director…the blood sample, only 4 ml, matched no one on the Bio census and…contained a single trace molecule of Uranium-238-Tetrairon-Phospholipid Complex.” Elsep explained

Grathoss stood in silence, his mind parsing the consequences of that find.  His instinct was to doubt the accuracy, but if Evyn had done the analysis.

It seemed impossible, only Generaton 30’s needed that complex…meaning the blood belonged to either Valence - impossible as he had been on Aethas and indeed in the control tower with Anderis and Grathoss himself that day - or Aethena herself - but she had certainly not been part of the Keeara mission, and if she had it was inconceivable she should be injured to the point of bleeding! And they were both on the Bio-Census records anyways.

Yet how could it be anyone else? There were only two Generation 30s…weren’t there?

He considered Essea’s excess production of Uranium-238-Tetrairon-Phospholipid Complex, enough to feed three Gen 30s, with capacity for inevitable spoilage of stores…could there be a third? 

How could he, Director of Apportionment not be aware of such if there was! What were the Outdated, Essea, Anderis and the others hiding from him and the Gen 29s!

“Director?” Elsep noted the uncharacteristic pause, only a fraction of a second, but still vastly more than his Gen 29 mind should need 

“Attempt to use Aetheric Biotic Source tracing,” he quickly demanded

“The truth behind this needs to be uncovered as a matter of urgency, take all the resources you need,”

“Immediately Director,” Elsep finished signing off on the link orb, here telepathic touch fading.

Grathoss strode forward hand on his Resolution dagger considering his next step, he needed more information about Project Aethenaea and its sudden suspension 22 Orbitals ago…and now its former lead, Moran Byj Piron, was Director of Genegineering after 22 Orbitals of obscurity…

These things were not a coincidence, Grathoss knew this was a ploy by Anderis, and Founder damn it the Outdated High Director had information Grathoss - as yet - did not. 

But he would - for the Vision of the Founder, for the glory of Gensis Deus - he would.





Jol felt stiff and slow, his body weighed down by his new full set of Reaver Guard armour.

As a reward for beheading the High Phaeron of Albon he had been given a complete set at last, along with his own small quarter on Enlil’s Bastion: E-Temmen-Anki - along with four slaves who even now were affixing the plate to him while a Dark Preceptor chanted invocations of Glory to the Darkside, a naked Kallū thin and wiry holy man of Uruk Nab - sat in the corner.

Between the seven of them his quarters were absolutely cramped, the walls dripping with condensation from the sweat of their bodies, and the heat of nearby thermal conduits that rumbled constantly - yet still not so unliveable as those of the lesser swords, or his time with the Ghoul Skins in the foetid bunks of the Flesh Barges.

Not that such conditions had ever bothered Jol.  His delight was in serving Lord Yn, his Joy in cutting the heads from the enemies of his Dominar.

“...carry the Curse of your Lord upon your blade, drive it into the hearts of your enemies!  Tear their liver and serve them to the helots, let nothing divert you from the slaughter Our glorious Dominar has enjoined!”

Each work of the Preceptor was rhythmically timed to the locking of his rEvear guard upon him, the ornate decoration of Uruk-Nab design faded and damaged, but the bulk of the plate still whole.

“Traitor!” the Kallū suddenly screamed standing upright  “Traitor!  Plunge the Knife in!”

The Dark Preceptor ignored him, mad as the Kallū of Uruk-Nab were and different in their view of what service to the Darkside meant, subject to frequent violence and rabid outbursts, the Dark Preceptors dared not raise their hands against them.  These unclothed madmen were Holy, driven to states of ecstasy and despair by the darkside, many helots considered it a blessing to be killed and feasted on by one.

Jol too ignored him as the Preceptor took the saber Jol had used to kill a Grey-Armour on Keeara when Darth Xylos had first noticed him.

He had made only one modification - to wrap scourge vine around the handle that its barbs might constantly give him blessed pain as his Ghoul skin once did.

Kneeling the Preceptor offered it to him with reverence.

Jol took it with equal respect, it was slick and wet having been dipped in the blood of the Albonite Priests as blessing.

A deep droning klaxon sounded across the E-Temmen-Anki summoning the Swords to war.

“Go forth and honour our Dominar, Our Lord, Incarnatio Tenebrarum, Yn, with the death of thousands!”

Outside the armada was already beating Kaarv miniscule defence fleet into submission, the ship rumbling with the occasional blast of Utukku's Flayer cannons - the durasteel shot now being replaced by Zerisium strip mined from Albon - Lord Yn always quick to exploit every new gain.

Stiffly, unused to the armour Jol strode forth, he would soon adapt to this new war gear, his slaves lowering their gazes from him, he gripped his saber tightly drawing blood from his palm.  Sigil freezing and Rune Burning he was ready to serve once more.



There were six Envirodomes on the blizzard blasted Kaarv that housed completely intact mining spears, and to each of these domes Lord Yn had assigned three Šaqu - each comprised of 500 Imhullu warriors, to breach the domes, deal with any resistance and be followed by his Swords.

The rest of the Envirodomes could be dealt with by Ghoulskins and Swords alone.

Yn was ready to join them, beside him the hulking form of the wookie Darth Grendel, fur almost burst from his Annunaki-shell, and Darth Zipacna, the Iktochi murmuring to himself half truths and false futures.

Grendel was consumed by a deep-seated anger after being betrayed by his own kind. His immense physical strength is amplified by a raw, guttural connection to the dark side, making him a terrifying frontline enforcer


Darth Zipacna meanwhile had a keen precognitive ability, one verging on madness and leading to cryptic utterances, he tried to silence the mad whispers of dark with physical exertion, making him one of the physically strongest of his Darths.

Yn had chosen these two of his 22 remaining Darths specifically, Grendel would provide the raw instinctual rage to give flavour and spontaneity to the more disciplined Imhullu, Zipacna would be able to hopefully foresee any damage to the spears and avert it.

“Anything?” Yn asked Zipacna as the Flesh-barge rumbled through the atmosphere, the last of the Kaarv orbital defence in an utter rout within half an arn of the battle commencing.
The bulky Kaarv vessels were glorified ore haulers with turbo-repeaters attached, no match for two E-Temen-Anki and two dozen Tiamat Destroyers. The greatest difficult had been in limiting the damage - after all Yn needed the ores from Kaarv to be exported to Xylos new foundries on Keeara and Malignon to produce more Tiamats and E-Temmen-Ankis.

“Deep ravine to the south…forty of them…they seek to hide in the storm - grey clouds upon alabaster skin…” despite his size Zipacna had an unnervingly quiet almost whisper-like voice that Yn was not above admitting unsettled him. 

“Ngggraa” Grendel growled

“I agree,” Yn grunted with the wookies assessment “Grey Armours again,”

Yn was already having to deal with the annoyance of splitting Kaels thralls among his other Darths, is primary method was once more a competition of sorts - whoever captured the most Mining Spears would win.  Yn reserved of course capturing the intact ones for him Imhullu and chosen lords.

“...seek to deny, shatter the spears…” Zipacna went on, Yns expression growing increasingly annoyed

“Of course they want to damage the spears, Grendel, spread your Blood-tracers far and wide for any sight of them…”

The Flesh Barge lurched as they closed in on the landing ground already secured by Ghoul-skins from the Cult of Merciful Scarification. 

“...if we lose any of those Spears I will not be pleased…” Yn finished with a growl.




With delicate tweaks of her refined facial musculature Jival plumped her lips and increased blood flow to make them redder, and squeezed her pheromonal glands to add to the haze of Aephordaesin that shrouded her.

Jival had found Moran in the upper observation deck, a stark, functional space overlooking the main nutrient vats of Project Aephrodaea.
The low hum of the bio-tanks filled the air, a constant reminder of the life they were struggling to cultivate.

Moran Byj Piron, his features still etched with an age that seemed to deepen each rotational, barely looked up from the glowing tap-pad he held.
"Director Piron," Jival began, her voice a low, melodic hum, perfectly modulated by her Generation 28 vocal cords and subtly enhanced by her Aephrodaea-blessed pheromones. She glided across the floor swaying with an unconscious grace, her lab gown modified to show off her figure, to captivate and disarm.

He grunted, a sound of acknowledgment, but his eyes remained fixed on the data.

"Are those the latest results from the new directives?"

Jival moved closer, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder.

The voarch-silk of his tunic felt coarse beneath her touch.

“Your vision for Project Aephrodaea is... inspiring. To fill every womb on the planet, to ensure the golden path of Genesis Deus continues. It's a monumental undertaking." Her thumb stroked gently as she released a stronger burst of pheromones, using the aether to guide it directly to his olfactory senses.

Moran finally looked at her, his gaze unsettlingly direct, completely devoid of the usual male Aethan response to her enhancements. His strangely aged eyes, instead of softening, seemed to sharpen, dissecting her.

"Monumental indeed,” he half spat, and geniality he had shown during his appointment vanished

“And it requires monumental effort. Are you here to offer it?"

Jival's practiced smile wavered, but only for a flicker.

"I am. I believe my insights, and perhaps, my... unique methods, could be of invaluable assistance. I've always held Project Aethenaea in high regard, Director. Its pause, so many orbitals ago, was a great loss to the Technocracy.

I often wondered about the true reasons behind it. Perhaps a mind such as yours, unburdened by past constraints, could illuminate them, and together we could prevent similar... setbacks."

She watched for any shift, any hint of interest or vulnerability.

The mention of Aethenaea, the subtle probing for secrets, the offer of intimate alliance.

This was her usual approach; a blend of intellectual curiosity and physical allure. It rarely failed.

Moran shrugged off her touch - not subtly or gracefully but with a viciousness as if she were infected with some contagious disease.

“Get your hand off me Gen 28 tramp, and clog those pheromone ducts, your girlish charms are wasted,”

His gaze was like a laser, boring into her, ignoring the pheromones entirely.

"I am concerned only with results, Doctor Pon Rrist," Moran continued, his eyes unwavering, dissecting her.

"And your 'unique methods' have contributed nothing. The fertility crisis, which is the singular focus of my appointment, is a direct consequence of this Directorate's indulgent 'creativity.' Your Aetheric Molecular Reassemblage might be useful for blocking egg release, as your own bio-signatures betray, but it is utterly useless for filling wombs."

Her face never shifted from the alluring smile she had adopted even as her mind swirled with confusion of how quickly and cruelly he had countered her.

"I have audited the whole Directorate," Moran continued, his voice now a low growl,
"and I am aware of your... extracurricular activities with Dr. Calrahn - the resources diverted, the data withheld, the attempts to circumvent my authority and that of the High Director.

I tolerate it only if it yields immediate, tangible progress on the mandate. Anything else is wasting my time, and by extension, the Technocracy's future.

So I give you and Calrahn two rotationals to show results - anything other than verifiable gestation and I’ll hand the lot of you over to the fichas,"

There was noctilith in his tone, her pheromones suddenly feeling sickly sweet and useless as they condensed on her skin.

“...oh and don’t think I don’t know who you’re blocking egg release for either,” he added before she could even contemplate Grathoss name
“Not just a tramp, but a sloppy one at that, now get out of my sight - and keep your childish games, hands and pheromones to yourself from now on,”

Moran turned straight back to the tap-pad, and Jival backed away with stilted formal steps rather than the seductive sway she had entered with, neither Jurahl, nor Grathoss would be happy with this.

She could avoid Grathoss for a few more rotationals, but Altantiades now had no time to lose.

The Phaethon Glider set down under a Groupmind Veil of Mist some 30 kilometers from the city-domes in a ravine cut by the freezing blizzard winds of the poles of Kaarv.

The Guardians quickly disembarked, set up a triad of plinth - Aetheric Sensory Misdirection, Aetheric Environment Emission Suppression and Aetheric Chrono Omission. While impossible to completely cloak them, the three combined would would ;cloud’ any Aether users sense of the Aethans presence and ‘muddy’ the temporal plane by 10 to 15 standard seconds for any non-Aethan precogs the Sith utilised - not a decisive advantage but sufficient for their purposes.

A quiet and controlled entry compared to Keeara.

Kestis carried the shame - or rather the memory - for such emotions were long since bred of out Aethans - of Keeara’s failure heavily, and would not repeat it.

Silent and swift they moved through the ravine to nature caverns.

The fighting had already commenced, but this time it was not just the hordes they had faced on Keeara…

Here the invaders' minds were disciplined, sharp and controlled - the Sith were using only their elite for this invasion.

Evidence of how valuable they consider the mining devices here to be Kestis noted to the group mind of 40.

And thus why we must cripple them

It was impossible to destroy all the ‘Spears of Kaarv’ there were hundreds under the enviro domes that crisscrossed mountain chains buried to their peaks in snow - but they could damage half of the most valuable ones.

Ancient mining devices that both bore the rock and processed the ores into premade ingots, the Spears were created in ages past - most likely by Rakatta of the Infinite Empire - using technology the current denizens of Kaarv could not replicate, only at best repair to an extent.

Six were said to be still fully functional, the rest operational but at varying degrees of irreparable inefficiency. 

The Aethans were divided into 4 teams of 10, 3 to deliver a heavy Grade Tartarus Sphere to cripple or destroy one Mining Spear each, th Fourth to secure their extraction.

Eileithyia’s wandered amidst them, her burden this time was not the glamour, or the Aetheric Environmental Emission Suppression - she was well used to both of those, and under her armor didn’t need the visual filter - no, it was the Obeliscus Aetheris Inanis itself.

It had a vast weight physically and in the aether immediately around it, the instructions she had imbibed via Aethena Cortex from an Orb by Gen 29 Aethengineer Nimos Rof Hteyt only added to her concerns.

She was uncertain whether its failure or success was the more unnerving outcome.

Regardless as her boots failed to leave a foot print on the snow and she ducked into a ravine past the Guardians stationed to usher her through she remained committed to the cause.  Founder knew why.

What else was her function she supposed.

The walls were rough cut millenia ago, icicles stabbed down from the cavern ceiling, the odd abandoned piece of equipment littered the floor as the Aethans passed silently.  It was not so different from their own polar regions, and they were thus able to move quickly and certainly toward the Lambda Envirdomes where their reconnaissance had sensed the most intact Spears were.

The Guardian teams began to branch off as they moved in deeper, Kestis working back down their ranks to find her.

“There is an old access door 2 kilometers ahead leading beneath Lambda 6 - my Chronospection indicates it hasn’t been used for decades, take the Obeliscus Aetheris Inanis down there, find a hidden location and prepare it for use on my signal only,” he ordered swiftly telepathically to her alone.

She replied with an affirmative thought, but then realised he meant for her to go alone - unguarded.

“There are risks with that device, I will not risk any other Guardians being in the vicinity should it’s activation be dangerous.” he explained

She appreciated his candour even if it deepened just how disposable he considered her to be.  A Lab-gormin good only to be hidden away and used to see just how dangerous this new toy was.

He moved swiftly away the rear guard soon over taking her too.

Just like beneath Alixandraea she was left alone, this time with a portable Abyss in the form of the Obeliscus Aetheris Inanis as company.



The Spear was larger than Yn had expected.

Situated beneath the centre of the Lambda 6 dome was the largest of the mining devices, an enormous alien device of dark near black greens

Yn had seen many strange devices and strange architectures and vessels in his years fighting across the Mid rim but nothing like this.  It hung over a vast pit into Kaarvs crust, and was vastly different to the utilitarian block prefabs that made up the Kaarvian ‘city’ surrounding it.


They had entered the western side, blasting their way into the dome with Gugalanna Cannons, the charge inside led by the Imhullu, their movements a disciplined wave of destruction.


Clad in Ekur-Forged Plates—a heavy, dark-red armor—they advanced swiftly, interlocked Anzû Aegis shields shimmering as they deflected the frantic volleys from the Kaarv Cossacks' kinetic rifles.

Yn could only trust his Imhullu to show the restraint needed not to accidentally damage the most intact alien Spears.

The Cossacks were the warrior caste of Kaarv, their faces a fierce tapestry of intricate, ritualistic tattoos in swirling patterns of blue and white, their bodies adorned with intricate metallic piercings.

They fought with a desperate ferocity born of a deep-seated connection to their ‘Hearth-Dome’, their cries echoing across the metallic landscape.

They had every right to be proud Lambda 6,7 and 8 housed the three of the six most intact spears all in a cluster, Delta 4, Epsilon 2 and Tau 7 housed the others.  To all of those Yn had sent four Šaqu - each Šaqu comprising 500 Imhullu warriors. 

The other five dozen or so Envirodomes…well he left them to the Cults, the Ghoul Skins and the fanatics under the more reckless Swords.

The unstoppable Imhullu shrugged off the hits from the Cossack, their Pazuzu's Whisper plasma pistols, turning barricades of scrap metal into molten slag and vaporizing defenders in a burst of searing heat.

Nergal's Tooth, a hypersonic polearm, sliced through the Cossacks' improvised defenses and their very bodies with a terrifying, silent efficiency.

They moved with chilling efficiency to match the frigid conditions of the dome.

They didn't suppress the Cossack positions; they systematically dismantled them.

Grenades of raw dark-side energy ripped through steel, and the warriors' brutal, close-quarters combat training meant they gave no quarter once they breached a line.

Their minds were a single, malevolent echo of their leader’s will.

Yn moved in the wake of this onslaught, his own Scythes following him like shadows. Darth Zipacna's precognition was their most potent weapon.

"Watch the East flank, my lord," he'd whisper, his eyes wide and twitching. "A small squad, hidden in the thermal vents... they're waiting to ambush.".

Yn hurled a bolt of Dark Side energy, collapsing the vents and crushing the would-be attackers.
"A mine in the Northern passage," Zipacna would murmur next, and a Scythe would divert to disarm the trap, saving the rest of the force.

"South wing... collapsing support beam... “,

A Rab Muššaru assigned to Zipacana instantly relayed the warning via screed-link to the Rab Šaqu - his Imhullu diverted just as the support beam gave way, crushing the remaining Cossack defenders who were desperately trying to flee.

"East flank... sniper in the catwalks... above the power conduit..." he whispered, and Yn's lightsaber flickered, a bolt of dark energy shooting out and detonating the conduit, incinerating the sniper and his nest.

The Iktochi was a living map of the future, his madness giving Yn the tactical edge to make his mop-up operation mercilessly efficient.

They had to be quick, the Grey Armours could appear at any moment.

“Do you sense anything more from the Grey Armour,” Yn growled as he deflected a kinetic blow then hurled the Cossack who shot it into the vast pit in the center of the dome with a telekinetic blast.

“They are moving…time and space around them is a haze of cumulus, flashing lighting….still distant…”

Good, that gave them time to secure the spears then deflect their attack, if they bothered at all.

The Swords followed in the wake of the Imhullu as soon as a line was breached, their role not just to secure but to brutally suppress all dissent.

They beat the Cossacks who surrendered for good measure, smashed the doors to the clustered hovels around the vast pit in the center of the dome and dragged out and butchered any Cossacks who had tried to hide.

The message had to be clear - the Sith accepted some surrender, but never the craven and there would be no mercy, only the Dominar's will.

Yn’s forces had nearly joined up at the far side of the vast mining pit from where they had entered, the screech, hiss and groan of battle dying down.

“Lord Zipacna, secure this dome and the Spear,” Yn ordered satisfied with the progress thus far, over the screed link he heard Lambda 7 was secured by the Imhullu alone, Darth Grendel approaching after having torn some Cossack elite limb from limb to take direct command over the precious Spear. 

“Imhullu! With me we advance on Lambda 8 underground!,” he thrust his saber to the downward ramp leading to the subterranean tunnels that linked the Domes.

2 down, 3 to go
 



The air in Enviro-Dome Lambda-7 was a cacophony of groaning machinery and the distant thrum of power conduits, a stark contrast to the blizzard-whipped desolation outside.

Darth Grendel’s hulking form, encased in its Annunaki-shell, moved with a surprising, savage grace through the lower machine levels.

His breath plumed in the cool, humid air, a deep, guttural rumble building in his chest.

Lord Yn had given him free rein, and the Wookiee was eager to unleash the rage that had simmered since his own kind's betrayal.

The Šaqu deployed to this dome had gone silent on the screed-link moments after declaring they had secured it.

Evidence of the pike warriors' success was everywhere, the Kaarv Cossack warriors lying dead in heaps, the cluttered habs shuttered with terrified beings peeking out on occasion, a few more bold beings skittering about, or those completely devastated wandering aimlessly..

There were a few dead Imhullu Grendel passed, all killed by cossacks, yet amongst the mingling scents he scried one unique — not the metallic tang of battle, not the warm iron of Uruk Nab blood, or the Odd copper of the Kaarvians…a sickly sweet, almost sterile scent.

Then came the whispers, not the mad precognitions of Zipacna, echoes of thought in the Force.

 Clear, cold, devoid of the emotions Grendel cherished in his own Dark Side connection.

Something very different to the Sith or Natives-  his fur bristled it had to be these Grey Armours that had killed Kael and set Lord Yn on edge.

He gripped the hilt of his heavy Zweihander saber, the ancient weapons weight comforting in his massive hand.

He rounded a towering, humming plasma conduit and found them.

Six beings in grey armour just as described by Xylos who had faced them on Keeara.

Bodies of Imhullu warriors lay sprawled around them, torn apart with surgical precision, some cleaved in two, others with limbs separated cleanly as if by a hyper-sharp blade, and near the walls hideous amalgams of flesh rock and metal that indicated the use of implosion grenades.

It had been a massacre, quick and brutal

The Force-blind Imhullu likely had never seen them coming, to the credit of Yn’s Uruk-Nab elite there were signs of a concerted resistance despite their disadvantage.

One of the Guardians, a tall female with an aura of detached efficiency, was kneeling beside a pulsating orb of dark energy that crackled with destructive potential.

Her phirk armoured hands moved over its surface, calibrating it with delicate aetheric prompts.

Another Guardian nearby held an outreached device seemingly analysing the base of a colossal Mining Spear, its intricate crystalline structure designed to pierce deep into the planet’s core.

Just as Zipacna had foreseen they intended to destroy the spear, Grendel growled, his voice a low vibration that vibrated through the metal floor.

His eyes, burning yellow with Dark Side energy, fixated on the Guardians.

The Aethans reacted with chilling synchronicity. Three of them turned, Styx rifles no sooner up than firing red cold beams that bounced off his annunaki shell.

Two others moved to intercept, their movements fluid, almost too fast for the eye to follow. The sixth Guardian, the one by the Tartarus Sphere, remained focused, her concentration absolute, clearly intent on completing her task.

Wookie - Class 5 - Disable - Harvest - Cleanse the lead Guardian's thought resonated in Grendel's mind, colder than the ice outside the dome,

Grendel let out a roar that shook the very girders of the dome. "Cleanse? I am the cleansing."

He charged, not toward the lead Guardian, but directly at the one still manipulating the Tartarus Sphere, a whirlwind of fur and ceramite.

He needed to stop that weapon.

The Zeiwhander hummed savagely mirroring his own guttural roar.

The first two Aethans met him in a blur Astrapí blades seeming to be imbued with the ice of this world.

They moved like a single entity, striking at joint and weak points, but Grendel's rage was a shield as thick as his shell.

He met their combined assault, the crunch of Noctilith against his saber echoing like thunderclaps.

One blade slid along his Annunaki shell, leaving a shallow gouge. He roared, slamming the flat of his pommel into one Guardian trying to flank him, sending them skidding across the floor, its movements momentarily disrupted. 

The Guardian with the Sphere backed away from the device, mentally co-ordinating with the other teams across the subtle group mind, their telepathic whispers that might otherwise have been lost in the icy airs of Kaarv now just recognizable for Grendel to hear. 

He barged forward heaving the second Guardian off him and bowled past the three firing at him, their Styx rifle ineffective against such heavy armour they had switched to their Adams pistols - now he was being genuinely slowed as Noctilith bullet punched into the Uruk-Nab plate.

Lighting came from the womans fingers to the sphere, and the Tartarus device levitated off the ground - Grandle lept, a bullet lodging in his thigh as he swung hard and heavy.

The Zweihander connected, smashing the Guardian woman across the breast cleaving deep into her - but it was too late.

The Tartarus sphere flew beyond the speed of sound up half a kilometer toward the spears tip, only marginally deflected by Grendels battering the woman who controlled it.

No sooner had it touched the spear than it detonated.

The air warped and rippled, then the Spear distended, ‘bending’ into the unnatural radius of the implosion device, the mass in range pulled to a single point, irreparably damaging it.

There was no sound or pulse of shock - rather the opposite, all the air seemed to flood into the absence the Tartarus sphere had created binding with the Spears mass into a single miniscule block of ultra dense matter.

Then as Grendel landed, the Guardians already hacking at him once more - the tiny hyper concentrated marble sized mass that had been a third of the spear fell into the depths of Kaarv never to be found.

Yn had reached the centre of Lambda 8 just in time to witness the same.

His Imhullu breached the Cossack barriers with their usual efficiency and disciplined pike thrusts - then and he and his swords surged through the gap, then rendered the fleeing cossacks in a gleeful spate of blood letting.

Charging up the ramp to the domes central chamber he had just crested the rise and laid eyes upon the dark green alien spear when it had warped, cracked and half of it vanished into a fist sized chunk of metal before dropping into the depths of Kaarv.

Yn’s mouth opened with a silent scream of pure frustrated rage that cascaded across the darkside buffeting Zipacna as he likewise stood astonished at his failure to sense the timing of the attack, the Iktochi having arrived with his swords just into time to see 10 grey armours successfully launch their attack on Lambda 6.

Kestis felt vindicated in his overall strategy and tactical implementation, orchestrated with utter precision the Aetheric Chrono Omission Plinth that had ensured Grendel, Yn and Zipacna were all exactly 12.3 seconds too late to prevent the sabotage - a window impossibly narrow for lesser beings, well within the supreme races parameters of execution.

The Guardian primus now spun around to see the Darth with 30 swords a nearly 50 Imhullu barring his squads exit.

Or so the Sith thought.

With a flick of his mind, implosion grenades the Aethans had concealed along their treat path detonated, crunching a dozen Imhullu and three swords into balls of flesh and metal.

Zipacna's head snapped to the sound of the explosions, a high-pitched Ikotchi snarl of fury escaping his lips.

His precognition, a fractured tapestry of future events, was utterly silent on this ambush…till a few seconds later when it became celar…

He realized had been chasing a shadow future the whole time - only a handful of seconds behind - but that was all it took to lose.

Zipacna brandished his lightsaber, its crimson blade humming with rage, as he gestured to his remaining forces.
"Surround them! Cut them down! Do not let a single one escape!" he roared, a command that was lost in the cacophony of blaster fire and the screams of his men.

The remaining Imhullu warriors and Swords charged, a chaotic wave of dark side-fueled aggression.

Kestis and his remaining nine Guardians were a whirlwind of focused destruction.

Their movements were a precise, brutal dance, each aetheric blade slicing through the Sith's armored plates with a chilling efficiency.

The Guardians' focus was on the most potent threats. Two Guardians, working in perfect synchronicity, dispatched an entire squad of Imhullu by severing a key support beam, which crashed down and crushed the Uruk-Nab elite.

Kestis himself engaged in a desperate duel with three Swords at once, his mind-link with his team allowing him to anticipate their attacks and turn their strength against them. The air was a maelstrom of screaming metal, crimson lightsabers, and the Guardian's cold noctilith blades.

The fight was a bloody, chaotic mess. The Sith, driven by rage and their master's fury, were relentless.

A sword managed to land a brutal strike on one of the Guardians, shattering his arm and sending him reeling, his aetheric blade flickering out. Another Guardian was caught in a crossfire of Imhullu plasma shots, his armor sizzling and melting before he was able to return fire.

But the Aethans were not without their own tricks. With a synchronized mental command, they activated their aetheric shields, deflecting the chaotic blaster fire and giving them a moment to regroup. Kestis, seeing his forces dwindling, knew they couldn't win a war of attrition. He needed to find an exit, and fast.

Kestis’s helmeted gaze flicked across the carnage, even as his Astrapi blade beheaded a sword. The retreat path was now a killing field, but the real challenge stood before them.


Darth Zipacna, his Ikotchi features twisted in a mask of shock and fury,singled him out - Kesitis understood the Sith's shock; their tactical prowess had been completely negated by a temporal maneuver they could not comprehend - just as Kesits himself had underestimated the sith prowess on Keeara.

The two met in the center of slaughter, their blades a dizzying blur of light and energy.

Zipacna’s precognitive abilities allowed him to see Kestis’s attacks a half-second before they happened, his double-bladed saber deftly blocking every strike.

He danced around Kestis, anticipating every feint and lunge, his face a grimace of concentration as he searched for an opening.

But there was none - Kestis fought with the geneforged superhuman precision and speed typical of a Gen 26 that left no weaknesses to exploit.

The Guardian Primus's movements were a seamless flow of relentless offense, each strike backed by a raw physical power that Zipacna despite his muscled form could only barely match.

The duel became a brutal stalemate, a clash of unmatched precognition against genengineered supremacy.

In Lambda 8 Yn had at last found an outlet for his rage - not the Cossacks - half of whom were in some kind of cultural self flagellation slicing their own stomachs open in punishment for the spear's loss - but 10 Grey Armorus that had fallen upon his Imhullu just as he arrived.

Yn roared, a sound that shook the ferrocrete floor, and a red blur of raw Dark Side energy tore through the air.

His lightsaber, a physical extension of his fury, screamed as it connected with the first Grey Armour.

It was a vicious dance of death. He hacked and slashed, his movements a brutal, unyielding force against their strange, dense forms. The Grey Armours, for their part, fought with a silent, terrifying efficiency, their ultra-dense armour deflecting what should be killing blows and their weapons aiming for his weak points with an unnerving precision.

His Swords, a whirlwind of blades and vengeance, joined the fray.

They cut into the Grey Armours' ranks, their lightsabers hissing as they tore through the Ekur-Forged Plates.

The Imhullu, recovering from the initial assault, now swarmed the remaining Aethans, their Nergal's Tooth polearms and Pazuzu's Whisper plasma pistols turning the tide.

The combined onslaught was too much for the ten Grey Armours, regardless of their tricks - defeat ricocheted through the group mind from Lambda 8 and Lambda 7 where the bestial Darth grendel lifted one Aethan and crushed his helmet and skull between his paws - truly displaying why the wookie had been labelled mad-claw and exiled centuries before from Kaskyyyk.

Kestis threw a tight elbow at Zipacana but failed to connect once more, his squad was 4 men down, all in all half his force were critically injured or dead.

Unit 3 he thought across to Eileiythia

NOW!




Hidden half a kilometer beneath the battle, mid way between the three Lambda domes in a forgotten hollow Eileityia responded immediately.

The Obeliscus Aetheris Inanis, the hungry Noctilith plinth beside her, pulsed in silent anticipation.

She knelt before the device, her hands trembling not from fear, but from the sheer force of will she was about to summon.

This wasn't a matter of simply "pushing" the aether; the instructions she had been given were an act of self-annihilation, demanding she become almost one with the weapon.

Eileithyia closed her eyes, and a primal, terrifying power surged from her core.

She began the complex, agonizing transfiguration, turning the very cells of her body into pure aether. She could feel her flesh, bone, and blood dissolving into raw energy, a silent scream of existence feeding the hungry plinth.

The Obeliscus responded instantly, its surface exuding a sickly anti light that drew in eerie electro magnetic wave around her.

It began to hum, a deep, resonating sound that vibrated not in the air, but in the very fabric of reality.

With a final, agonizing push of her will, she completed the circuit, pouring all the life she dared into the device.

A silent, invisible anti-wave erupted from the Obeliscus.

It wasn't an explosion, but perfectly attuned wave interference.

A vast aether-dead zone expanded outward, swallowing Lambda 6, 7, 8, and half a dozen more, domes in its wake.

In an instant, the Force was gone.

Darth Yn, in the midst of his furious attack, stumbled as his connection was violently severed.

Darth Grendel's roar became a confused, animalistic grunt as the power that fueled his rage vanished.

Zipacna's precognitive whispers fell silent, his mind now a blank, terrifying void.

In a distant envirodome Jol too stumbled - the Force remained outside of the Inanis field, but he could no longer sense his Dominar, his Lord - his Life!!!.  Raw terror ripped through the Sith  ranks across the planet at his Absence - the swords would’ve sensed his death but this…

Their Lord seemed to have vanished from the face of the galaxy. 

The Sith,rapped in a Null field, were suddenly just men with blades and guns, surrounded by an enemy they could no longer predict or feel.

The Aethans remained Genetically engineered demi-gods,  with four times the reflex speed of their Anzat ancestors, and physical strength to match a trained wookie such as Grendel.

They fell upon the stunned Swords, their movements a blur of calculated violence.

In Lambda 8, two Guardians, moving as a single, coordinated unit, descended on a bewildered Grendel. The Wookiee, his rage-fueled strength gone, could only bellow in confusion as the first Aethan's blade sliced through the tendons of his knee. The second followed up with a brutal, downward chop that severed his leg and paw clean, leaving him to collapse in a heap of fur and pain.

Kestis struck like a vocobra, ignoring the frantic flailing of Zipacna's saber. With a swift, clean strike, he decapitated the Darth.

The head, still twitching with the remnants of its madness, he quickly secured in a stasis-bag in a smooth motion. The intelligence-gathering potential of the precog's brain was too valuable to waste.

As Yn tried to regain his bearings, a Grey Armour charged him, a furious blur of phrik armor and honed reflexes.

Yn parried the initial blow, but the demi-god strength behind the Aethan’s strike knocked him completely off his feet.

As he stumbled backward, another of his own Swords, fighting blind and without the Force to guide him, stumbled and fell directly on top of him, pinning him beneath their combined weight.

Yn thrashed impotent, his mind now a vortex of primal fear and impotent rage, unable to push the weight off without the dark side to strengthen him beyond his human norms.

The Obeliscus was a demanding master.

Eileithyia’s body screamed from the strain, her lower 3 conscious levels awash with red damage indicators, she felt her upper 3 conscious levels begin to fracture under the sheer intensity of the aetheric drain.

At her limit, unable to sustain the anti-wave any longer without her very being unraveling. With a final tremor of her will, she released her connection to the plinth.

The anti-wave collapsed instantly, and the Force, like a rushing tidal wave, surged back into the domes.

Fall Back! Leave none of our casualties behindKestis signaled, their telepathic link crafted from Anzat physiology not reliant on the Aether

For the Aethans, it was momentary weakness, a flickering of their advantage taken up with retreating.

For the Sith, salvation came too late.

The black red flood of energy pulsed through Yn’s limbs and he shoved off the dead Sword atop to see nothing but corpses around him - Swords and Imhulliu, and not one of the grey armours though he knew at least four had fallen.

Grendel reeled bleeding out, the darkside at last stemming the flow as his shadowed eyes gazed at his severed paw twitching across from him. 

“Kill them…” Yn hissed on his knees

“KILL THEM FRELLING ALL!”

Her fingers tingled with the familiar cold burn of aether overuse, but still Eileityia deftly prepared the implosion charge that would render the Obeliscus Aetheris Inanis a molecule sized piece of refuse.

There was no way she would even attempt to carry it back.

She could feel the others were making fast progress on the retreat, but the Imhullu and Swords were catching up.

Kestis to his credit or damnation was slowed by carrying their casualties back, a mix of not being able to afford any losses and not wishing to give the Sith any more Aethan bodies than they already had. 

With the same grim resolve that had her escape Keeara and the Katharos Ziva landing pad Eileityia pushed on and triggered the timer for the implosion grenade.

The path back up was steep, and she was slow, burnt out; she couldn’t use the aether at all for short term somatic reassembly let alone comprehensive Geno-reversion.

She was behind, the first team was already at the extraction point.

They wouldn't leave me behind would they?

Why wouldn’t they, she had served her purpose hadn’t she?

Eileithyia's thoughts were a whirlwind of dread and defiance as she forced her exhausted body up the steep incline.

The metallic taste of aether burnout was a sour reminder of her depleted state.
 
She was a weapon that had fired its last shot, and she knew it.

The faint, rhythmic thud of approaching Imhullu boots grew louder. Just as she rounded a jagged outcropping of Kaarv basalt, two figures dropped from above, their crimson lightsabers hissing to life.

Sith Swords from the quickly arriving second wave, in grim skeletal helms, their movements fluid and predatory.

Eileithyia froze, her mind screaming for aether that wasn’t there.

The first Sword lunged, his blade arcing in a vicious horizontal slash. She barely ducked under it, the air above her humming with heat, and rolled, her body a blur of desperation.

The second Sword followed up, a series of quick, precise thrusts that forced her to dance backward, the dagger deflecting the blows with a shower of sparks.

She was cornered against a cliff face, the only way out a fatal plunge.

The swords pressed their advantage, their movements a synchronized death ballet. But Eileithyia, even without her aetheric power, was not without her training -

Damn and thank you for that Mentor

With a desperate shove, she used her Gen 30 raw physical strength to smash the weakest of the rock columns behind her with her elbow, crude but effective burst that sending a rockslide tumbling toward her attackers.

The Swords leapt back, their blades cutting through falling stone.

It was all the opening she needed. She lunged forward, not at the Sith, but at a long forgotten broken power cable, yanking it free from its mount.

The live wire whipped wildly, and she used it as a crude whip, forcing the Swords back as sparks flew in all directions and allowing her to pull her Adamas pistol.

Six quick precision shots straight to the head - far more than were needed - burst the skull of the first sword.

The second pulled back, she could almost see the grin behind his helm as the Imhullu arrived. A full fresh Saqu their dark-red armor a wall surrounding her

The second Sword was now on her, his lightsaber hissing as it came down for the kill as he fumbled to grab her own -

The blade screeched against Noctilith - an Astrapi sword but not her own.

Kestis pushed the Sword back and with a rapid flurry of blade, knee and elbow demolished the lesser being, finishing by hurling the Sword into the spears of the Imhullu.

The Guardian Primus had sensed she had fallen behind, doubled his Aetheric Holistic Sympathetic Enhancement to get there in time  - the enemy could not be allowed to capture a Gen 30 - however flawed - intact.

Get behind me and fire he ordered as he paced toward the Imhullu.

Despite the difficulty she grabbed her Styx rifle and fires on the Imhullu shield without effect.

It was a token effort Kesists didn’t need the help.

He didn’t fight the Imhullu - he dissected them.


It was neither brutal nor cruel, just efficient merciless extermination.


To their credit, not one ran.


None even retreated, only pulling back to reposition attempting to gain advantage, mixing short arm daggers and side arm pistols they tried everything they could to stop him.


Interlocking shields in a testudo, thrusting pike and firing out - Kestis simply leapt up, propelled by the aether and 26 generations of muscular strength enhancement, slamming down on their upturned shields Aetheric Kinetic Multiplication generating enough force to crush the Imhullu beneath his to death.

Now in their midst he systematically debilitated then decapitated them, targeting them with direct reference to their reflex speed and threat level. 

Whoever was the ‘higher’ threat, turning ever so slightly faster to fire or stab him, was sliced into with Kestis Astrapi, or shot with his Adamas pistol first.

The thick Uruk-Nab plate was little better than clay to the Noctilith blade and bullets, non-force users they could not compete with Kestis genehanced speed, and at only 10 men could not overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

Arms, legs, head all tumbled, crackle of aetheric arc emission energy on the stumps left behind for Kesits Astrapi blade. The Guardian primus never took his superiority for granted, avoiding even potential strikes in the whir of his annihilation. 

Even when only their leader remained the Imhullu stood defiant. Kestis circled as if respectful of a fellow warrior, feinted, then when the Imhullu made a decent, logical, but ultimately futile thrust as Kestis was simply too fast, Kestis decapitated him in a single motion.

She struggled up as he saviour shook the blood from his sword with an indignant flick.

Move he ordered as far behind them the implosion grenade warped the Obeliscus Aetheris Inanis beyond recovery.

Lindea Sel Merra lay serenely on the form fitting bio bed, utterly unphased by the wide array of recording devices about here, from conventional homeostasis analytics to Aetheric instance Orbs.  

It was after all not so different from a Precedenture chamber, albeit with eight scientists watching on.

Unclothed apart from a simple medical robe Lindea, one of Jival's many gen 28 friends lay back ready for the insemination attempt as Jurahl carefully inspected his instruments.

Quite the crowd was growing around the observation window of Theatre 6B, and just as he began to question it, Jival slid into the room, bedecked like him in a full Steri-suit of white, and at the window the other Doctors gave way to Director Moran.

You got him Jurahl thought approvingly to Jival

I wouldn’t say that, the man cares only about results…which I’m certain we’ll deliver, she thought back warily

“Are you ready Lindea,” Jival asked audibly of her friend.  Lindea while not aware of the true nature of her role as the first to be implanted with a Gen 32 child - indeed the fact was known only to Jurahl, Jival and their assistants - had jumped at the chance to undertake experimental implantation.

Poor Lindea had tried so many hundreds of partners in Precedenture to convenience always falling short, only 3 sad miscarriages to show for it.

“Very,” she replied confident


Jurahl carefully loaded the insemination injector as an assistant administered a standard course of hormonal catalysers through a needle already pierced into Lindea’s womb.

Every motion, every millimeter action, and molecular shift was meticulously recorded and scrolled onto screens for all to observe, Jurahl felt a slight apprehension outside from Evyn, the Gen 29 seemingly concerned about some of the more unique proteins Jurhal was using in the hormonal catalysers - courtesy of Darth Caldoth's suggestions.  

Jealous he didn’t think of it first no doubt Jurahl mused.

“Doctor Pon Rrist will now commence an rhythmic Aetheric Biotic Transfiguration pattern upon the patients uterine bedding and Aetheric restrain of immune reactions whilst I insert the Zygote, and simultaneously stimulate its cell wall proteins to modify them just sufficiently to bind with those Doctor Pon Rrist is also modifying, “ Jurhal explained as he positioned the injector carefully.

Lindea showed no signs of discomfort as the injector was placed, Jurahl waiting till it warmed to body temperature, a small green light on the handle indicating readiness.

With a flick of telekinesis he hit the inject button jetting the contents into her womb.

Deep below them, still in the kolto taken Atlantiades felt part of itself which had been taken away being stimulated to Generate

It had been some time? since the last contact with the Mother-Being that was teaching it so many things.  

Atlantiades was not sure what to do.

The procedure commenced, Jival and Jurahl working in telepathic tandem and precision aetheric molecular manipulation to alter the proteins on both the uterine wall and the zygote to lock in place - the Gen 28 wall and Gen 32 zygote differences where small but numerous, hundreds of micro adjustments per second occupied all six of their conscious levels.


Of the many lessons from the Caldoth codices this had been the most useful, the ability to force integration and gestation between seemingly unmatched pairing - the ancient Sith had used it to forge so called ‘Leviathans’ blending the most vicious characteristics of dozens of species - how much easier for a mere 4 generation leap within such a refined and pure gene lineage as Aethans possessed?

Yet Jurahl felt a moment frustration as the one arn time limit passed, the zygote was not still bonding, his coordination with Jival was perfect, the protein locks fitted the binding keys exactly, and Jivals expertise in adjusting such was unparalleled

He felt the eyes of Moran upon him.  

Jurahl could not fail, what was he missing! He had adapted the Caldoth Procedures expertly!

Altantiades wondered at the nature of what was happening to the Part-of-it-that-was-away…it was trying to combine with another being…to…gestate…yes…to grow.  

This pleased Atlantiades - yes to create Gestation was it’s purpose, to profligate itself!  Yet the Part-of-it-that-was-away seemed unable to nest in the other being on its own….

Jival readjusted the binding keys once more, time and resources were short, with every readjustment there was a risk of complete protein chain collapse and failure they could not afford.  

Worse the macrophages were assembling at the edge of the binding site in vast number now, ready to consume the gen 32 zygote and eviscerate it with potent digestives as any other foreign compound infiltrating the purity of the Aethan form.

For Atlantiades it was now or never.

For the first time Atlantiades reached out to the Part-of-it-that-was-away, encouraging it to bind, to gestate to grow as was natural.

So in depth in their machinations neither Jival nor Jurahl sensed the intervention, to them it seemed the zygote itself was finally ‘adapting’ to the environment.

The Proteins finally linked.  

The Uterine wall accepted the zygote and the lining began to wrap around it in a warm nutrient supplying embrace.

Finally the flaring immune response subsided.

The macrophages idled at the edge of the zygote, clicked on and off the cell wall proteins a few more times, then determining they were now valid, moved back into the uterine walls to patrol elsewhere for the moment.

Jurahl and Jival would’ve sighed for relief had not such base physical expressions been bred out of them.

Atlantiades retreated back to itself content that the Part-of-it-that-was-away was not gestating as it must, hopeful that more gestation occurred soon.

They merely projected the success as a wave of Aetheric certainty to Lldia who allowed herself a deliberate expression of happiness


As the Out-Voice had spoken to it and generously given assistance in knowing, Atlantiades gifted a connection to this outer part of itself.

“Insemtination complete,” Jurahl confirmed to the crowd as they stared in wonder at the bio readouts streaming on screened and tap pads,

Jival still focused on the binding with her aether senses felt the drawing of nutrients the cellular mechanics of protein manufacture.

“Cellular division,” she said “Has commenced,”


 


“I have created” the Fae-child said

Impes reacted with a start.  This was the first time the Fae-child had initiated their connection…she had no idea it knew how…

Impes was finishing the last bindings and elements to her latest alchemical creation - one that - based on what she sensed was occurring below on Kaarv - would be needed very soon.

“Created what?” Impes asked tentatively accepting the connection, the Fae-child felt strident and proud about what it had done.

“Part-of-I-that was away has bonded, there are many now - they are growing.”

This does not bode well…. the Meditation Sphere interrupted into Impes mind

For once Impes agreed.  

“What are you growing?”

“More of myself,” the Fae-child replied now able to express a sickly ‘pride’ in its telepathic tone  

Impes, master of sith witch craft, inured to all the horrific potent necromancy and blood magicks that involved felt her stomach drop unsettled by that statement.  

The Fae-child was indeed learning from her, but what was it doing with this learning and to what end….

For a brief troubling moment Impes worried if it was not she that was tapping the Fae child's power, but the Fae child now tapping her knowledge.

“How many more of ‘yourself’ are being made?” Impes asked tentatively

“Many…many…many….”

 

"Escalation" seems to be the theme of this chapter: from the Sith response--specifically Yn's pendulum-like action in achieving success to almost disasterous defeat--to Valance's force, to Eileithyia's role as "weapon of mass destruction" (which is in itself an irony given how she is the ONLY one--barring the other two Gen 30s--able to trigger and maintain the Obeliscus Aetheris Inanis, to the machinations within the Technocracy, to Atlantiades' role in "fertilization," we're treated to the remarkably inevitable runaway present in its collision towards the future and the Devastation.

With Korlas we see how in desperation and hubris her attempts to bring the future into clarity in the present have the most dire of consequences (one wonders if Grathoss will make good on his internal promise to ensure that neither she nor Chrell qualify for Deferment and are given over to the fichas for Resolution).  What's worse is that amidst their vocal assertions that they did nothing wrong, it was the other, et al. they all neglected to consider "WHY" the noctilith obelisk shattered and what such represents (especially to the Technocracy).

Then Jival's proven methods seemed to have met their match with Moran.  But what is his story?  Why was he pulled from the project over 20 Orbitals ago to now resume his position?  Clearly politics are somewhat to blame but there is more to the story, Sub Rosa to be sure.  Consider how Moran's strictures of a 2 Orbital timeline has induced Jurahl to commit to experimentation absent his usual thorough processes.

One wonders if, for all of Valance's (and more broadly the Technocracy's) actions against the Sith, that they end up making their downfall its own self-fulfilling prophecy.  Consider just how rabid Yn's need for conquest is based on logistics as well as desire for power.  Darth Yn strikes me as the kind who will ALWAYS covet the hidden treasure that much more to the plunder in the open.

But the Technocracy isn't the only entity with multiple motives at work: Impes own encounters with Atlantiades seem to also have unexpected implications and results.  With all of this mixed altogether, the inexorable conflagration seems all too certain.

Again: escalation...and unexpected consequences.

Meta-note: This is LSG's best chapter (IMO) yet: action, intrigue, mulitple, disparate threads headed towards one another in what I'm sure will be a monumental event.

But I'd also like to give some of the details their due: the characterization from the Darths (LOVE the Dark Side Wookie, the precog Iktochi, and, of course everyone's favorite warlord Yn), to the members of the Technocracy (and Eileithyia in particular with her absolutely necessary secrets) are what are missing from Disney Star Wars.  And supplementing this is the INCREDIBLE art throughout the chapter! 

THIS is the way to tell a "prequel:" without feeling like there is no mystery or conflict, "Sins" keeps you on the edge of your seat!  Indeed, this is a graphic example of how the journey is just as (if not moreso) important as the destination  :)

Next chapter please!

 
With a stuttering lurch the Carrion Hauler dropped out of hyperspace, Clod felt searing pain as his skull all but cracked as he flew forward in the rusted old Corellian freight hauler.

“Waaa, what daaa…” he stared at empty space around him as Ban-Bab beside him likewise recovered, the corpulent gungan long face falling

“Deez massa’s n’ gunna be mad at yousa!”
“Mad at boff of uz!” Clod replied through his toothless mouth.  He was hauling Cocosae and Zerisium from Albon to the Armada over Kaarv before it departed for Scelle. If a Carrion Hauler went rogue or came late most often the Ghoul Skins’d have the crew for lunch to make an example like.

“What en dropped us out, Fixer! Fixer!” he yelled to the mechanic

The ship bumped again, not gravitic Turbulence common round these parts something hit it…

Suddenly Clod felt sleepy, eyes couldn’t keep open…he…he….

…woke up to see himself in the back hold, cramped with the rest of the crew, all piled atop each other, even the naked old Kallu that lurked the ship and he could never seem to get rid of was there.

And in front of them soldiers of some type in grey armour.

Valence observed the lesser beings, the slaves of the Sith.  Labour inputs nothing more.

With him were the first ten Guardians who had received the mimetic burst direct into their Aethenaean Cortex of the curated and cleansed knowledge of ‘Darth Rael’ whom he had defeated on Albon.

Already copies of the outsiders filtered knowledge were being made, mimetic instruction was being provided to 50 Guardians per Rotational, with more copies it would soon be 200 - within 10 Rotations the full Guardian force would have the ‘Darth’s’ complete knowledge of the Sith structure, tactics, culture, composition as well as her keen close combat skills.

Clod felt himself rise lifted by an invisible hand

“Yeuh a‘re ‘ship’m’ster?” a soldier in black asked in a quick clipped voice

“Yaar…” Clod replied - or rather his voice did, he seemed to have no agency over his own body.

“Good…” Valence began inserting the instruction with the Aether…no sooner had he commenced that blood dripped from the labour inputs nose, its eyes rolling back.

“Weak things,” his second in Command Teryce Tal Nadya noted

It was true this was the fourth one whose mind had been broken beyond repair, he hurled the body aside with the aether.

The rest of the boarding team were working rapidly to inject the Cocosae nuts and water takers with a modified strain of Banthanaerfus Aethanpathicus repository illness that would not activate until in a host body.   

The disease would not kill many Sith labour units, that was not its intention - its goal was to diminish their efficiency by damaging their respiratory system permanently - a million inefficient slaves - Valence and Kestis had determined in collaboration - were more of a burden than a million dead ones. A million dead slaves they would be forced to replace straight away - a million slow weak ones would fester and degrade operation efficiency over a protracted period and be replaced ad-hoc.

Valence contemplated the remaining functional labour inputs, he settled his eyes on the thin naked creature - according to Raels memories this was some kind of ‘Religious’ figure.

The antiquated notion puzzled Valence, but perhaps that would be more effective. He raised the Kallu with the Aether in a vice-like grip.

“You are the Religious leader of this group? You have spiritual influence over the beings of the Armada?”

If the dark skinned Kallu understood it made no mention, till Valence applied more pressure in the Aether to its fragile mind and it ‘nodded’.

“You see this crate, and those orbs” he gestured to a container they had filled with 24 newly primed Aetheric Observation and Tracing Orbs, a fist in diameter, all pure Noctilith.

“At your next opportunity you will provide orbs to other religious men such as yourself and explain they are invested with whatever sanctification you prize.  You will encourage the distribution of one Orb to each of the E-Temmen-Anki dreadnaughts on the basis of whatever ‘holy’ reason seems best suited to achieve that outcome,” 

Each word was written in the Kallu half mad psyche with the noctilith pen of Aetheric Cognitive override, there was little left of the Kallu mind expect that instruction by the end of Valences words.

“The bio-load has been distributed,” Teryce confirmed

“We leave immediately,” Valence dropped the Kallu and turned swiftly for the Phaethon Glider they had docked with, there could be no further delay to this vessels return to the armada now it was loaded with the Technocracies intended payloads. 

As Valence stepped aboard the aethan craft he sensed Kestis mind reach out to him via the link orb on his hip.

While Gen 30 and naturally superior to Kestis, Valence had never sought to supplant him as Guardian Primus.

Kestis remained an effective leader, disruption would benefit no one and Valence was able to execute any mission he wished with consultation and often valuable feedback from Kestis.

“The Mission on Kaarv has succeeded,” Valence informed his squad,
“We have now one more stop to make,”



   



His boots pounded the half rusted decks of the E-Temmen- Anki - shaking it out of time with the rumbles of the engines and groans of the slaves.

Serfs, helots, Preceptors, Ghouls Skins, even Kallu fled from the path of their Dominars rage hiding in corners or fleeing down corridors.

Only Eidea, dragged by the chain around her neck was forced to remain within the seething rage filled aura of Lord Yn as he descended to the darker loading bays where the veined Meditation sphere awaited.

Impes blew an annoyed sigh as she sensed his coming, stepping out of the sphere to meet him.

“I conquered a planet and lost a Lord!” he boomed as soon as he entered the docking bay that was her work shop, home and sanctum, replete with vials, cauldrons and fetishes lit by tallow candles

He dropped the chain he had been dragging Eidea with and pounded up to Impes who stood arms crossed defiant.

His bulk enhanced by the Annunaki Shell towered over the slim sith witch.

“Half the mining spears gone, dozens of swords and the Dark side itself ripped from me!  And where you were my loyal ally? Where were your magicks when I needed them!” he spat the words in her face, spittle landing on her brow.

He jutted a spike armored finger in her face, voice low and menacing,

“You better have something to deal with these grey armours,”

“Foruntately for you,” Impes said evenly wiping the spit off her face,

“I do…”

From her pouch she produced a small glass vial filled with a black liquid

“Refined from the Grey-armour corpses we got on Keeara, imbibing this will give you, for a little while, their strength, speed and ability to sense them - I think,”

“You think?!” Yn retorted crossing his arms and backing away his rage diminished by Impes progress

“Alchemy is art not science, especially with these creatures,”  she reflected on the Fae-child, it had been partly understanding the Fae-child more that helped her craft the tincture. She kept that fact to herself.

Yn snatched it from her hand, popped off the top and sniffed the metal rich blood base of the tincture,

“I wouldn’t do that,” she warned before he tasted it

“Why?”

“If I am right, then the effect, while powerful, is probably fatal.  These Grey Armours, their proteins have an infuriating way of turning toxic when exposed to any other life form - as if they reset the fact anything but their genetics exists,” 

Yn handed the vial back as quickly as he could.

“How much do you have?” he growled

“Two cauldrons, three, four hundred vials perhaps, but choose who you give them to wisely,”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” he grunted before leaving to distract himself with some more enjoyable pursuits.



He protected her.

Or perhaps he protected others from her.

Unlike the retreat from Kaarv this time Eileithyia didn’t have to worry about ‘escaping’ back to the tunnels on her own.

“You served your function well Unit 3,” Kestis had thought to her privately on the Phaethon Glider as they left covered by Nyx shrouds.

The Sith second and third waves descended to meet the rising wrath of the Darths.  Kaarv’s population would no doubt suffer immensely for the damage the Aethans had inflicted, but that was not the Technocracies' concern.

“I will escort you back to your…accomodation…on our return, for now rest and heal I will use you again very soon,”

She sat in the corner away from the others, and detached as far as she could from the group-mind, healing herself via geno-reversion as the burn out from aether overuse slowly subsided as the hours in hyperspace passed.

There were many casualties, from 40 deployed 11 were dead, 13 severely injured. Kestis had captured the head of a ‘Darth’, now sealed in the cryo chest they had emptied of its food packs and kolto patches -  and would hand it over to the Aethengineers to attempt to extract its memory.

But so far as Kestis thoughts were concerned it was a success, the Sith denied precious resources and the Inanis tested successfully.

As the time passed Kestis' thoughts turned to personal matters, he wondered if he would see the Gen 28 woman again at the Hetairon.  Wondered if he should tell her of his success, or would that be too boastful?

Eileithyia sat silently unable to block his thoughts, and not wanting to, he had, even for his own purposes, saved her, and was, if for purely utilitarian reasons - looking after her.

It was much like Mentor, though at least Kestis motivations were not so obscure. 

She wondered what it might feel like if he wanted to protect her for herself not as part of a mission or strategic objective.

It was how she imagined Aethena would care for her, as a loving older sister…

A sister who would protect her out of love not duty,

A sister who would guide her with affection and care, not harsh punishment like Mentor.

Of that perfect Sister she could only dream…she might not have a sister, but she did have, if unwittingly, a lover.


You will see that ‘gen 28’ again Kestis… Eileithyia thought as she quickly repaired her cells and very soon at that

 

“I admit my knowledge of aether induced gamete pairing and uterine wall cellular anchoring is not as advanced as yours…” Essea said as she scrolled down the tap-pad that detailed Doctor Calrahns detailed, and thus far successful, insemination Protocols,

“...however these processes seem…unusual, are you certain this is valid?” he looked up to the desk across the room where Moran was, as always, buried in documents

He didn’t look up

“He is getting results that is all the validity I need for now,”  Moran replied - his voice, like his face, showing his age more than usual in Essea’s presence.

“You didn’t come here to scrutinize the work of my staff, Director,” he addressed her formally.

“No I did not, you know of course Grathoss paid me a visit,”

“Over 40 rotationals ago, why bring it up now?”

“He’s watching, I needed a reason to see you…I will leave these in you in tray…and request you spare some growth pods and bio-synthesizers to my Directorate,”  she gestured to the flap-case of requests for various resources to be directed to her projects she had left idly on the visitors chair when she entered.

Moran grunted but added nothing

“Grathoss is getting close, Moran,” she said sternly as he continued to look down.

“If he’s talking to you he’s asking the wrong people,” Moran retorted

“But the right questions, the Uranium-238-Tetrairon-Phospholipid Complexes, the timing of the ‘end’ of Project Aethenaea, it’s only a matter of time,”

Now Moran looked up, his old eyes accusing

“Are you afraid of him, is that it…” his tone took on that of a cruel lesson-master

“..and coming to me for what, safety?  He’s been on you for Orbitals, that was your role after all, he’s your problem not mine,”

Essea leaned into the conflict irritated at the old man

“You still think She will protect you if Grathoss finds out, don’t you? After what happened?  Have you even spoken to Her in the 22 Orbitals since?”

“I don’t need Her protection,” he spat back, she had hit a nerve,

“But you obviously still need mine, blackstone skinned freak,”

The blunt personal insult to her skin colouration abnormality was beneath him. Moran was an easy man to respect for his work, Essea knew, but a nigh impossible man to respect for himself.

Yet…Essea drew back…this wasn’t like him, he might think such things but he would never be so short tempered to say it…but then when was the last time since she had spoken to him in person? 

22 Orbitals…

A night she dared not remember, the blood, the small bundle passed between them - the fury of a Goddess that almost consumed them….it was enough to make a lesser generation shudder.

has he aged so much in that time? her face and aetheric aura betrayed not anger at the crass insult, but concern.

Somehow that made him more irate, his aether presence bubbling with indignation to be ‘pitied’

“If you can’t handle the ficha, I will,” he growled then waved her away,

She turned, pausing only briefly to look back at him, concern still clear.

Then seeing he was in no mood to acknowledge her any longer she left.

Time passed in the reviewing of documents, the allocation of scarce resources, finally long past midnight he summoned Calrahns tap pad with a telekinetic aether lift.

He scrolled across hundreds of lines of text and formulae, intricate diagrams of innumerable gossamer lines linking nucleic acids with short hand indicators for the aetheric potentials needed to ensure binding.

Many Orbitals ago, at the height of Project Aethenaea he would’ve dissected this in moments…now….

His face scrunched in frustration.

Essea was right, he didn’t understand it, not fully…but he trusted Calrahn and the Aephordaea teams dedication to Gensis Deus, they would do nothing to imperil it.

Regardless soon…soon it wouldn’t matter.

Founder help him…he thought as his hand shook with tremors he now struggled to conceal…it had to be soon.


Dr. Jurahl Fid Calrahn strode with pride and purpose the clinically white halls of the Genos Ziva to the directors office, Jival beside him less than her usual perky self dreading her next meeting with Grathoss.

Regardless, her sacrifices were being rewarded, and the summons from the Director was proof of that.

There was no secretary at the door, the desk vacant, Moran had dispensed of any assistance preferring to take on full administrative duties. 

He was as secretive as he was ruthless it seemed.

“Come in Doctor,” he called from behind the door that slid open.

Moran was behind his desk, half a dozen Link orbs before him, his desk screens scrolling through the results Jurahl had forwarded the night before from Lindea’s first post insemination inspection.

The tramp as well, Moran thought at Jival as she followed Jurahl in.

Unfortunately for Moran he had thought so loudly both Jurahl and Jival could hear it as clearly as if he’d spoken it, either a bizarre deliberate insult or an embarrassing slip. 

Jurahl had to admit, Moran did not look well, he appeared fatigued, any Aethan over Gen 20 could go for weeks without full sleep by cycling conscious levels, but he seemed to have not slept in an Orbital - as if Moran was making up for his Orbitals of absence with over work now.

“Well Doctor it seems you’ve succeeded where so many others have failed. Not only successful insemination but accelerated fetal development - five times standard progression,”

“It has been a moderate success,” Jurahl replied, imitating the humility of Soron Varas.

“And the means you used to achieve that success,” Moran stabbed leaning forward “What of those?”

“All that is detailed in the reports I provided,” Jurahl said without a hint of defensiveness, it was true, he had clearly detailed his methods in his report…

He had just omitted the exact source of the Zygote and to mention the Caldoth Codicies where he had learned the techniques - that in all humility he had of course appropriately modified for Aethan characteristics . 

“So it seems. And on that basis I’m ordering you to immediately prepare mimetic burst training orbs on the procedure, begin harvesting more zygotes from you ‘sources’ and commence a full roll out of insemination across the population,”

Both Doctors had to contain their surprise, such an acceleration and utter carte blanche was…unparalleled.  It was more than Jurahl could ever have hoped for, Atlantiades, mass produced using the wombs of every woman on the planet!

“Director Piron,” Jival said less certain

“Have you thoroughly reviewed the protocols we provided you with? Are you certain the full Directorate approves of such a rollout?”

What are you doing?! Jurhal hissed telepathically to her This is all we’ve ever wanted!

Yes, but this seems too quick, something is not right here - what if we are being set up for failure? A Failure that would lead to a more extensive investigation into where the zygotes and methods came from…   

True….that is why I rely on your political astuteness Jival Jurahl agreed on reflection, Jival was an expert in such politicking within the Technocracy.

Neither could’ve anticipated Moran's response.

“Don’t you question me cheap tramp!” he yelled, he made to leap up but staggered his hands propping him up on his desk

“I’ve been guiding Gensis Deus since before you had hair to twirl. The mandate is clear every womb filled, a ‘monumental’ task you said, so get to it the both of you, I want 50 women inseminated within 3 rotationals, a hundred in 6. 

You two have stolen more than enough equipment over the last few orbitals to manage that I think! Now you’ll have the full authroised capacity of the Directorate behind you! 

But if even one insemination fails I’ll hand you over to the fichas for embezzlement and insubordination!"

While far too advanced to show shock or confusion, both Jurahl and Jival certainly had trouble comprehending the logic behind Moran’s reaction.

To see a man who had had such glorious success as Project Aethenaea turn so furious over a seemingly pedestrian question was…illogical.

Had he always been so…unstable?   

Jurahl wondered what chemical imbalances in his brain might cause such a reaction. Jival wondered what secret agenda Moran was trying to further - or conceal - beneath the project's success.

Regardless Jival realized with no small amount of glee she might no longer need Grathoss poison chalice of an alliance much longer.

And the Doctors would not lose this chance to further the Program in accordance with their own designs.

“I will not rest until a hundred are inseminated as per your instruction Director,” Jurahl said with a nod, Jival guiding him out.

As soon as the door closed behind them Moran slunk into his chair, his shaking hand activating a small Aetheric Environmental suppression orb to conceal his next action he commenced Aetheric Somatic Reassembly, continuing the futile efforts of repairing his degrading form.

A quote from an ancient tale of old Katarr coming to mind as he fought the inevitable result of…

“...no mortal may see my face and live…” he grizzled
   

 

“Waiting for someone in particular?”

Eileityia felt shocked as someone spoke to her. 

She was standing as always close to a column in the shadows of the Hetairon, her immaculate gen 28 glamour in place as individuals arrived, coupled and headed into the apartments, then left some half hour or even less later.

Arriving back on Aethas and through decontamination had been mercifully uneventful, and as he had promised Kestis had escorted her back to her underground hovel.

Kestis was eager to be rid of her, both were surprised Mentor wasn’t there,  Kestis thoughts were consumed with getting to the Hetairon to see if the ‘Gen 28 woman’ was there again, but he had other reports to make first.

She had showered, changed and headed straight there to ‘meet’ him….but now she had been there over two arns waiting for Kestis to arrive.

She feared he might not come at all that night depending what his other duties required.

“No, just assessing my options,” Eilieythia replied with practised indifference turning to see another Gen 28 woman behind her, her features subtly different from Eileithyia’s mask.

“Hmmmm…” she didn’t seem convinced

“...and here I was thinking you had a thing for a certain Gen 26 Officer,” the Gen 28 woman playfully jibed

“...you’re not the only one who notices all the couplings you know,” she added

Eilieythia experienced a brief flare of danger sense, glacial blue in her sixth level of consciousness, but it didn’t last, it was perfectly rational, everyone watched everyone and she had been here often of late.

“Don’t be bashful, he’s in very good shape, I don’t blame you - perhaps I’m just jealous I didn’t capture him first,”

Eileithyia knew she was just trying to be friendly, but as Mentor always said….”if those fichas ever catch you…” she had to be so careful,

“Jival Pon Rrist,” the other woman introduced herself, extending her hand and a fourth conscious level, the typical protocol for an introduction.

Swiftly wiping any possibly incriminating thoughts from that level Eileithyia took her hand in greeting, an odd sensation for Eileithyia to actually touch another aethan, but she saw no alternative without raising more suspicion.

“Ari K’av Saana,” Eileityia replied, one for six different false names she had in the bio Census for situations such as this.

“A pleasure to meet you, Ari,” Jival said, her grip warm and confident.

She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a low purr. “So, are we just here for the scenery, or do you have someone else in mind for tonight? There’s a certain Gen 29 Aethengineer I’ve been trying to get the attention of—Nimos Rof Hteyt - he’s a bit aloof, but so brilliant! My friend Jurahl says I should give up, but I love the challenge.”

Eileithyia felt a flicker of genuine amusement. It was odd, hearing someone talk so openly about such a familiar, yet alien, social ritual.

“He sounds… intriguing,” Eileithyia replied, allowing a small, graceful smile to play on her lips. “I’ve just been taking a bit of a break from it all. Sometimes it’s nice to simply watch.”

Jival laughed, a bright, melodic sound that echoed the vibrant aetheric hue of her conscious level.

“Oh, don’t be like that! Life’s too short for breaks. Enjoy all the Precedenture you can before Resolution!"

She looked Eileithyia up and down, her gaze appreciative. “You've got an interesting look, you know - curious - very Gen 28, almost stereotypically so, nothing distinct - mysterious, couldn’t pick you in a crowd…must drive them crazy.”

Eileithyia felt a surge of genuine warmth from her commenting on each other's appearance and speculating on the subtle variations of gene expression that was common among women, or so she’d heard. 

It was a fleeting but powerful feeling of normalcy, she was just another woman, a part of the vibrant, bustling life of the Hetairon.

Jival’s smile suddenly vanished. Her eyes, which had been sparkling with friendly banter, turned sharp and focused.

“Oh, look who it is,” she whispered, her conscious level tightening with annoyance and aetheric disgust.

Eileithyia followed her gaze.

A few dozen yards away, a man with a distinct air of authority was entering the Hetairon. Gen 29, his movements precise and purposeful, and his aetheric presence artificially warm.

Every other woman seemed to look at him dotingly, some even turning from the partners they were already talking with.

Grathoss was not here to amuse them or indulge himself, but to receive his report.

Jival quickly broke off her gaze and began to walk away, a new urgency in her stride.

“Another time Ari, it seems my intended Gen 29 is working late, and I need to… well, let’s just say he’s not the only one who needs to work,” she said, not looking back.

Her final thought to Eileithyia was a resigned mix of duty and half pleasure.

Eileithyia watched her go, a sense of loss and unease settling over her. The brief moment of normalcy was gone.

The world, her world, was once again full of shadows and lurking threats.

The arns passed, the crowd dwindled, matches were made simply out of lack of options rather than desire, she was about to leave, when Kestis finally arrived.

He looked over the Hetairon and saw her instantly, his sense seemingly extra keen.

She was too excited to wait studying up to him, Chiton flowing with red flickers of aetheric energy.

Kestis stood transfixed, feeling as if the Personifications of Aethas had blessed him with success in war and now the most desirable woman on the planet beside Aethena herself.

Eleityia held out her hand “Well Guardian Primus?” she said, Kestis could barely contain his surprise, to think a Gen 28 had waited for him and taken the time to look him up on the bio Census was astonishing.

“Shall we?”


Jival entered the Precedenture chamber with a detached air, the cold, sterile environment a welcome respite from the chaotic aetheric chatter of the Hetairon.

Grathoss wasted no time hurling off his white gormin leather coat and setting his Resolution dagger on the table, bio monitors already scanning them in and assessing conception success estimates.

"Your work is... progressing," he said, the word "progressing" delivered with a hint of grudging approval.

"The Caldoth Protocols have proven their worth, it seems. A successful insemination, even Anderis is pleased,"

Jival felt the bio-bed adapted to her posture as she lay back shuffling off her own clothes.

“Very successful, Moran just approved a full rollout,”

 A dangerous stillness settled over Grathoss's aetheric presence

“He did, did he, and how did you convince him of that?”

He finished removing his clothes as he spoke, the full streamlined superhuman musculature of his Gen 29 frame dwarfing her

“I didn’t,” Jival remained calm even as Grathoss loomed over her, if she didn’t know better she might imagine he was jealous 

“I had no need to even seduce him, he was convinced by Jurahls work on its own merits,” she explained omitting key details

“Which is why I came tonight to tell you before the larger work commences, once it does I won’t have time to meet you here any longer,” she continued the half truths, confident enough that she knew Grathoss well enough to subvert even his keen ability to detect untruths so long as he remained clouded by his own ambition and petty jealousies.

“Is that so,” He swung above her on the bed glaring down at her.

“Then you will have no further need of my special deliveries,” he half grinned then kissed at her neck,

Do not forget the telepathically pushed into her second and this conscious levels

Who provided you with the Caldoth codices Calrahn so relies upon, the samples from Aethena and Valence, the kolto, centrifuges, growth tanks….it was my hand that lifted you up, 

She shifted uncomfortably beneath him

...and mine that can push you back down


“Ari,” she said after they had finished multiple conception attempts that she knew were futile, yet Kestis had engaged with vigour,

“That is my name,” she added fixing her hair knowing it was a lie, a strategic one in that it would align with what she had told Jival should Kestis investigate further, but a lie all the same.
Kestis sat on the edge of the bio-bed, the aetheric hum of its diagnostic functions a soothing undertone as read outs analysing every moment of their activities scrolled by. 

Eileithyia couldn’t help but keep one eye on them in case any misaligned to how a Gen 28 should perform were present.

“Thank you,” he replied, then stared at the floor for a moment.

“I don’t want to trouble you, I wonder if you have a moment to speak…”

She paused and slid over to him,

“I’ll listen,” she offered falsifying disinterest

“I confess, Ari,” he began, his voice soft,

“I’ve been thinking about you constantly since the moment I saw you. The mission to Kaarv… it was a success, but it was also a reminder of how fragile our lives are. It makes an Aethan think.”

Eileithyia felt a pang of annoyance, she knew that victory was only made possible by her own efforts - he was here because she had risked so much using the Inanis…

…yet then he had rescued her in turn.  She decided to call it even.

Kestis continued, his gaze drifting absently around the clinical confines of the Precedenture apartment.

“Gen 26, my days are already numbered, and now, I know I will fall against the Sith, not from deliberate Chronospection - I just sense it. An Orbital or two ago I would’ve thought that a fitting completion to my service to Gensis Deus. But with you… with you, I feel like there could be something more.”

He looked at her then, his eyes full of a raw, desperate hope that Eileithyia had never encountered in any Aethan before - all she had known was disgust and ambition.

“I have this… idea that after the war… I could give up the role of Primus to Valence, and work as a Praeceptor - rear my own offspring - before my Resolution.”

She had to stifle a genuine laugh, the Praeceptors and Praeceptrix were the teachers of Aethan children in the Academies they entered after 4 Orbitals, it seemed slightly absurd a Guardian Primus would wish to take on such a role - not the least because there were no children to teach.

Yet it saddened her more as the thought settled down her conscious levels.

His words, his vulnerability, and the conflict with the reality she offered  made her deeply regret coming here.

He had hopes she could not fulfill, his dreams built in part upon an illusion.

She shouldn’t keep doing this, yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself, the connection and sincerity he offered were too enjoyable for her to deny herself. 

Eileithyia didn’t fool herself; he could never accept her as she truly was. If he learned the truth or she vanished he would be hurt. Dying in battle would be the least painful option for Kestis to escape the situation she had created for him.

“I…I wish you luck in fulfilling that dream,” she replied non committal

He accepted that as the end of their time together.

“Thank you for listening, Ari,”

It was near dawn when the old door glided open and there was Mentor waiting for her in his chair.

She stopped in the doorway waiting for Mentor…nothing for a moment as he seemed to rouse himself from slumber.

He looked tired - beyond his usual drooping aged features.

“Well, did you succeed?” he asked

She walked cautiously toward him

“The Guardian Primus killed one of the ‘Darths’ - their leaders-  and denied them some resources…on that world at least,” she dare not say ‘Kestis’ for fear or releasing even a hint of emotion about him.

“Hmmmph…proud of yourself are you…” he grizzled a tremor on his lips

Something was wrong, kneeling right in front of him she looked him over, faulty as she was her Gen 30 senses, visual, tele-haptic, thermal, auditory and olfactory were perfectly sharp. 

“Mentor,” she said with affection that surprised her - perhaps just the after glow of her time with Kestis seeping through.

“You’re not well,”

Eyes flashing Anzat red -he struck her shoulder lighting quick with his cane.

“You worry about your own failings girl!” he snapped and she drew back

“That device, did it work?”

She felt the red fleeting pulse of a minor bruise on her arm as she replied

“Yes, but it's difficult, it took everything I had to keep it active, and even then it was barely long enough,”

“You need to train harder, push further!” he demanded a surge of energy she could sense flowing through him that was intense, but would only be temporary and leave him depleted after.

 “You can better Her - you must, put an end to these Sith and drive Genesis Deus forward, if you’d just work harder!”

To emphasise the point he tapped her arm with his cane

“You make sure the Guardian Primus gives you every opportunity to fight, to learn, Founder knows you need the discipline,”

Now she looked even more puzzled at him

“You want me to approach him?”

Mentors eyes darted about strangely, his sequence of thought seemingly lost,

“Watch out for the Fichas. Mark my words if they…”

“...ever find me they’ll kill me, I know!” she snapped exasperated, rising over him, any patience she might have had now depleted

She glared  into his reddening eyes, seeing, smelling, sensing the genetic bonds between their ancestral species within his genome unravelling more and more with each passing second.

“..but what I don’t know is why after 22 Orbitals of saying to keep away from anyone else, of mind wiping every one who glances in my direction, of beating me every time I snuck out, of scolding me for every trip to the Hetairion now you want me to actually speak to another Aethan and go on these missions off-world?  Risking being found more than ever, for what, Mentor?  What is it you want me to do?

What - Who - am I meant to be?”

A wheezing breath passed through his increasingly flared nose as he looked at her, eyes watery,

He slumped back in his chair withering back under his exhaustion.

If he had an answer he either couldn’t, or wouldn’t bring himself to tell her.

Her own aetheric fatigue was biting, they both needed rest.

He’d never looked so old.

Resigned, she headed to the small cabinet and pulled out an old tatty rug, placing it over the old man who was already drifting into sleep.

He’d soon be back to his usual self, she decided - he was a fixture of this world as much as the mountains of ultradense ore themselves - Founder he’d probably outlive the lot of them.

He had to…







The scouts had reported little of immediate value on Scelle. 

The magnetic ores and bespoke life forms were novelties rather than core assets, but even so like every system in the agri worlds it would be conquered, and its lack of resistance and location on the Byss run made it an ideal place to muster the fleet and prepare the next waves of invasion across Virmir, Turek and Ildun - the true jewels of this sector.

Yn laid back on his throne watching as Carrion Haulers full of ammunition, food and fuel flowed in from Keeara, Malginon and Albon - ingots of heavy minerals from Kaarv would arrive in the coming days.

Behind them were Flesh Barges packed with ‘eager’ new recruits from the Medjai of Albon to the Hoplites of Malignon pressed into service to form new units among his forces, even a few of the Cossacks of Kaarv had joined after the brutal repression that followed the…disappointing…outcome there.

“You see little Countess,” he boomed to his Tetan noble slave, Eidea as always curled beside his throne, the flayed skin of the Albon High Phaeron gone she now had half a Cossacks outer thermal-jacket.  She seemed incredibly adept at scavenging clothing

“Master of all I survey!”  He gazed at the Pict-projection of Scelle as the Flesh barges approached the upper atmosphere, this would be a standard conquest, break the handful of population centers, establish a new regime under a Darth, and then move on.

“Would you like to visit the surface of our new world?”   

“If it pleases you my Lord,” she whispered.

He grinned

“That’s right. If. It . Pleases. ME!” he boomed attracting the attention of some of the pit helots operating the endless banks of consoles below.

“What pleases you, little Countess? The jewels of the Medjai? The silks of the Malignon? The furs of the Cossacks?”

Eidea’s heart pounded, a frantic rhythm against the thick, coarse fabric of the Cossack jacket, the sickly memory of the flayed skin she had to wear still fresh.

“Whatever pleases you my lord,” she said, her voice a soft, trembling whisper.

Yn’s face scrunched with irritation

“Don’t patronize little Countess,” he warned, his good humour fragile given recent setbacks.

“Another world to conquer, let’s make this one a game. A wager.” He leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl that was meant only for her.

“I wager that my forces, my new legions, will crush this world with ease. I will lose fewer than ten thousand men in the taking of it.”

Eidea’s mind raced, weighing the odds.

She had seen the sheer, overwhelming power of his armada, the disciplined brutality of his new recruits. Ten thousand men on a planet with "little of immediate value" and a lack of resistance? It was a high number a certainty of victory for him.

“And if you do not, my Lord?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

Yn’s eyes gleamed with a predatory light.

“If I lose more than ten thousand men,” he said, his hand reaching out to stroke her cheek, his touch as rough as sandpaper.

“Then you may clean yourself of the dirt of these barges and wear the finest silks, the most exquisite jewels of every world we have conquered. You may adorn yourself as the Countess you once were, and parade before me as a true prize of my conquests.”

His hand lingered on her face, and he added, his voice a sibilant whisper,

“But if I win, little Countess, if I lose fewer than ten thousand souls… then I will take you and all those prizes to the surface burn them before you. You will wear nothing, and the lords, chiefs, whoever rules Scelle, will pledge themselves to me while you brand them with my Rune.

He leaned, his face a mask of cruel anticipation. "Well? Do you take my wager?"

“If it pleases you my Lord,” she agreed without choice.

“Submit! Submit! The Day of Glory is upon you!”  The Dark Preceptors words filled the metallic tasting air of Scelle as the Ghoul skins rushed forward, flayed skin pinned to their bodies with Scourge-vine, Gore-Hooks, Ugallu Mauls and Humbaba piercers at the ready.

“See above you his Blessed chariot!” the Dark Preceptor gestured with his fetish covered staff to the E-Temmen-Anki that hovered in orbit, lousy with hundreds of Carrion Haulers and Flesh Barges that carried resources to and fro.

Over three dozen large rocks at different levels were linked by a bewildering array of cables and bridges, the outpost upon them built from scavenged magnetic ores and metal, were a perplexing labyrinth of towers and bridges.

The populace was hidden away as soon as the first flesh barges touched down, likely in the floating rocks cavern network.  All that remained outside were the Sky-sons.

“Behold the Orb of Yn!!!” the Dark Preceptor screeched, behind him four serfs struggled to carry the palanquin upon which the Orb sat, half a dozen Kallu followed it, naked, emaciated and shuffling on their knees in adoration of the sacred object.

Jol had never heard of such a relic of his Dominar until recently, but the Kallu seemed especially devout toward the strange black orb, and he trusted the Darkside guided them.

“Yn CHA!” he bellowed enthusiastically, directing the cult forward

“Do not shame yourselves in the presence of the Sacred Orb!!”

With Lord Rael and Zipacna killed in action, many Swords formerly under their service wished to impress and be raised to the now vacant stations.

Their Dominar had decreed that any Sword who could conquer an outpost, on land or in the skies, without losing a single Ghoul-Skin - would be rewarded with Darth-hood. Failing that whoever lost the least would be ascended to First Sword of Darth Xol. 

To be a Darth was to be blood bonded to Lord Yn, to be in complete submission to his will, to command an E-Temmen-Anki, Imhullu and countless cults, zealots and ghoul skins.

Jol dared not even contemplate such an honour, he would serve his Dominar with his every fibre, if the darkside deemed he be raised to Darth, so be it, if the darkside deemed he slip off this very sky-bridge to his death so be it - so long as it was in accordance with the will of his Dominar.

The Ghoul Skins, driven by the fervent cries, charged forward, their flayed hides and crude weapons a visceral testament to their devotion.

Jol, however, felt a profound unease. The magnetic forces of Scelle's ores made his Reaver Guard plate feel unstable, warbling with every step, the ornate Uruk-Nab designs humming against the unseen energy.

His armor, meant to be an unmovable fortress, felt more like a cage, its weight and rigidity a hindrance to the agility he was used to.

Flesh barges had disgorged him and the Cult of the Claw upon the largest of the cities that floated on the magnetic ores of Scelle.

Just as the Ghoul Skins reached the first bridge, a rain of projectiles descended not from above, but from the sides.

The Sky-sons, masters of their floating labyrinth, were a nimble and evasive foe, clad in blue leather armor with feathers and tokens of hunts.

They didn’t charge; they danced and leaped with jump jets or small, jury-rigged gliders to soar between the vast magnetic rocks.

Their main weapons were long, hook-tipped spears, and with shocking precision, they aimed for the Ghoul Skins' necks and limbs.

Each hit was meant to disorient, to throw the enemy off balance, and send them plummeting into the orange haze below.

Jol's Rune throbbed with a burning desire to charge, to unleash a furious, single-minded slaughter and crush this scattered resistance.

His body screamed for the familiar, visceral joy of battle.

Yet, his Sigil pulsed with a cold, insistent warning. This was not a battlefield for brute force.

He drew a new weapon from his back—the Asag Volley Repeater. A brutal, angular piece of Sith technology, its blackened metal casing a stark, menacing contrast to the serene beauty of Scelle.

It didn't have a traditional sight, but a pulsating Darkside infused targeting system that aligned with Jol's Sigil's cold, calculated precision.

He leveled the repeater at the nearest group of Sky-sons and fired.

The weapon did not hiss with plasma or crackle with energy. Instead, it expelled a series of rapid, kinetic slugs that hit with the force of a battering ram.

The lead Sky-son wasn't vaporized; he was simply knocked from his glider with a sickening crunch, his body rag-dolling into the void.

His companions, their woven shields offering little resistance, were struck by the follow-up shots.

Their shields shattered, their light armor crumpled, and they were sent spinning helplessly into the abyss between the rocks. The primary effect was not death by heat but by blunt, concussive force.

His fellow swords joined him, their Asag’s filling the air with rounds as the Ghoul Skins moved forward, Bahrtock - the nominal leader following Lord Raels death, barked for them to come back.

“Back scum!” he had lost too many Ghouls skins already, his ambition to be a Darth was a furnace in the force, ironically driving the Ghoul skins near him to even more frenzied mindless violence.

The enemy was using the environment against them, and a wild charge would only lead to a chaotic, wasteful fall.

The Sky-sons began targeting the Swords, darts coated in the poisons from the insects that thrived in the orange grasses seeking out joins in the Reaver plate - only the tiniest trace needed to penetrate to kill in seconds.

Far below Jol was certain the Swords facing the Grass-Runners - the natives who lived on the surface and harvested the insects as well as intermittently fighting and trading with the Sky-sons - were bearing the brunt of the toxins.

Jol kept the cold of the Sigil as his guide, snapping shots wherever he could as they made the laborious march across a wobbling bridge.

Half the force was across the other side as he dodged hook-spear until his spine froze with imminent danger - a lurch, a crack and the bridge fell from beneath his feet.

Dozens of Ghouls skins crammed on the seemingly sturdy metal and floating rock bridge fell, Jol desperately reached out his armoured fingers sparking as they scraped along the metal of the bridge until they cut enough to find purchase and stop his fall.

Other swords were not so fortunate, falling to their deaths.

The Sky-Sons immediately rounded on their gliders behind them, hacking any who tried to hang on.

Jol had to move fast, summoning his strength he clawed up, pushing Ghoul-skin and Sword alike aside as he climbed, seeing beside him the hook spears pull others off to their death below.

His Reaver guard felt like an impossible burden but he would not fall, would not fail his Lord.

Hand over hand he clambered and climbed till finally cresting the lip just as a hook grabbed his leg.

Desperate he spun round with an instinctual wave of dark side energy “YN CHA!” he bellowed - the roar flung the Sky-son away and knocked the glider with it.

Jol gave thanks to his Lord’s sacred name as he finally clambered up.

Before him the Ghoul Skins were being hacked apart, the palanquin and Dark Preceptor already dead, the Orb of Yn had fallen to the ground - the only other swords were corpses or being hauled off the edge by hook.

It was clear the Sky-Sons were allowing the Ghouls-skins to spread across the floating rocks as a strategy to spread and ilsatoe them.

Jol quickly looked around ans his suspicion was confirmed - the Sith had hundreds of many on every rock - but now every bridge was being cut leaving each group isolated - the Sky Sons gathering in force to whittle down the marooned Sith forces one by one.

Incensed at the potential of failing his Lord Jol rushed forward Jol grasped the holy orb and raised it high!

“By the Orb of our Lord Fight Fight!”

(https://i.ibb.co/jvdzVJXn/C6-Jol.jpg) (https://ibb.co/rGg3bdrD)

His chest vibrated with the roar of his Will, his rune seemingly to blaze fire into his words that infused the Ghoul Skins and handful of Swords still alive with renewed vigor.

Jols lit his saber and hacked back a spear hook as the Sky Sons came round for another pass.

The push and pull between the two forces was a torment he had not felt since his ascension, a raw conflict between rage and precision.

With a powerful roar, Jol unleashed a wave of Force energy, a focused kinetic blast that shattered a nearby shanty, showering the gliders above with debris.

He used the brief chaos to assert control.

“Back into the buildings!” he yelled, on the streets the Sky-Sons could repeat their attack-and-retreat tactic over and over.

They burst the rusted sheet metal doors down and fumbled into the dingy creaking rooms, Jol gripping the weighty Orb closely, its burden a reminder of his duty.

“My Lord,” an Initiate preceptor, face half fallen off from a Sky-Son hook, but Ugallu maul still in hand gasped at him, “What is you Will?”

For a brief moment Jol thought the Initiate was speaking to someone else, yet there was no other Sword there, only the fidgeting writing mass of Ghoul skins.

They would be shredded to pieces if they remained outside yet how else to fight.

He looked around the hovel, noting the absence of civilians.
 
The populace, numbering in the hundreds of thousands, had vanished into a network of caverns within the floating rocks, their homes and workshops abandoned.

Jol gestured with his saber. “Locate them,” he commanded.

The Preceptor immediately began moving, guided by a low-level, force sense for the fear and despair of living things, the Ghoul Skins of his cult ramming down partitioning walls as they searched for where they had fled.

As the Sky Sons gathered outside, catching the odd Ghoul Skin who could not contain the throbbing rage of their rune and rushed outs, the Initiate pointed his maul at a large, pulsating cable several hovels into the labyrinth of cluttered homes. .

"They are within," he hissed.

With a series of synchronized blows from their Ugallu Mauls, the Cult of the Claw tore open  heavy, reinforced magnetic seals of a cavern.

The air inside, stale and thick with the scent of fear, was a feast for the Sith.

The hidden populace, wide-eyed and terrified, cowered in the darkness. They were a pathetic sight, a non-combatant population of craftsmen and children, completely defenseless.

The Initiate chants of "Glory! Glory to the Dark Side!" echoed through the confines of the rock, a horrifying benediction for the slaughter as Jol pushed past.

“Await my order!” he demanded plunging deep in, the caver lit only by the red glow of his saber, a light that the orb in his hand seemed to consume voraciously.

He let his Rune infuse him with raw strength as he wound down the cavern at least spying the artificial glow of lumen lamps, and the panicked yell of Sky Sons.

Jol surged forward with dark ferocity into their midst.  Absent the wide open skies of Scelle, their gliders or jet packs, he butchered the Sky-Sons, saber hissing through leather armour, Orb smashing skulls apart, behind them were dozens of huddled women and children.

Jol grinned, and barked for his Ghouls Skins.


The Sky Sons raised their Pierce rifles as being began to move out to buildings….but quickly lowered them as they saw who existed.

Each of the flayer skin and barbed wire covered beasts that had invaded their floating isles was dragging two or more women or children, using them as human shields.

“Submit!!!” the Initiate yelled Ugallu maul in one hand, a bawling child held in the other
“Submit to the Incarnatio Tenebrarum, Dominar and MAster of all he Surveys, YN, Glorious YN!, Behold his Sacred ORB!”

Jol followed, gripping two young teens in one hand, the Orb held high in the other

The sight of their people, exposed and vulnerable, was a deliberate and calculated provocation.

The Sky-sons, who had been hiding in the maze of their spires, were faced with three unenviable choices.

Fight and risk their families lives, do nothing and be assured the Sith would kill them, or submit and try to scrounge some concessions.

They looked up high as flesh barges continued to descend - they had killed thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of Sith, and still more came.

Tall and thin as all Sky-Sons were, distinguished only by his scrappy beard and Razor wind hardened face the leader of Flock lowered his Spear-hook.

His hands hovered over two Orbs -

The first, regular Noctilith was linked to 200 Biocensus link Orbs - those all Aethans were required to carry at all times to monitor their position and vital statistics - specifically 200 women selected after analysis of physical and aetheric traits to be the most likely successful candidates for insemination.

The second, Sangrilith Orb was the Seal of Aethas,when blended with any other Aetheric communication is gave irrefutable authority to the instruction, every women thus contacted would be compelled to submit to the Geno-Ziva within three rotationals for the first wave of insemination.

With a wry contentment High Director Varo Kyhs Anderis lay his hands on them and flowed the Aether between both.

“The first insemination orders have just been issued…” Anderis paused as he narrowed on the aether lines that flowed about that particular issue among his citizens

“...and now received…” he allowed himself a slight smile

“You’ve done well, exceeded my expectations as always…Moran….”

“Don’t flatter yourself Varo,” his ‘old friend’ snapped back in his usual gruff fashion.

They were alone in the marbled hall as dawn broke over the peaks, Anderis stood in his usual rich blue suit, a white triquetra of purity upon his lapel, his guest sat in the Director of Genehancement chair as was fitting enough, but seemed to slouch in it - a weakened posture at odds with the noctilith will of the man. 

“I’m not buying time for you and you damn well know it,”

“You consider solving a 30 Orbital long fertility crisis only buying time?” Anderis asked raising a brow

As so often Anderis' ever effective, and ever irascible friend didn’t answer the question put to him but didn’t fail to make his statement.

“And seeing as neither you nor Essea can handle the sniffing ficha, I’ll deal with him too,”

“And how much time exactly are you trying to buy for the ‘little bundle’?” Anderis asked, perhaps he could extract more by turning to his friends favorite topic.

“Time enough,” was the bitter reply, Anderis noticed his friend was looking at his hand stiffly opening and closing his fingers

“Time enough…”



Mentor was gone when she woke.

He’d seemed so reliable, fixed to that damn chair her whole life, as much a part of Aethas as Mount Varas and the Sangrilith core…yet he was back out snooping no doubt.

Eileithyia took it as a good sign he was getting his strength back.

She was not alone for long. 

She felt him coming, a linger of the bond they had shared the night before still nascent in her minds though she had to quickly suppress it.

“Aethenaea Unit 3,” Kestis said with a brief tap on the door

“Guardian Primus,” she stood formally as her true self, he kept his eyes turned from the horror of her imperfection.

“You…performed well on the last mission…you are recovered?” he asked, forcing himself to feign concern despite his raw instinct to burn her as an aberration and offense against genetic purity.

She was used to such disgust, but in some ways she appreciated the intensity of the effort he was making to be polite.  He was as good a man as any Aethan could be.

“Fully Guardian Primus,”

“We depart within three arns on the next mission, your talents in Glamours and Aetheric deceptions will be useful for our purposes,”

From behind he telekinetically levitated in a crate

“New armour, I personally adjusted it to better suit your…unique figure…”

She opened the lid surprised by two things.  First it wasn’t the usual Phirk but refined Noctilith armour, a significant upgrade in durability and Aetheric capacity, and second a Sangrilith link orb in a small box.

“The orb is linked solely to one I possess so I can contact you directly, to communicate efficiently. 

The Noctilith armour should increase your mission efficiency as well.” he explained coldly, seemingly struggling to reconcile his natural inclination to want to provide the best for his soldiers with the disgust he felt toward her very being. 

“I’ll change immediately,” she offered, taking up the crate and heading to her room.


Some kilometers away in the still of abandoned access corridors Elsep Nal Kyrgos and three other Actuaries of the Directorate of Apportionment in stark white gormin leather jackets, Resolution dagger at their sides, carefully attuned the complex array of nine Aetheric Essence tracer Orbs.

The trail from the Katharos Ziva had been frustratingly inconsistent, many blind paths and dead turns had been followed, but step by step they were closing on stronger and strong remnants of the ‘Vanished’ Aethan of the Keeara Mission who some how had Uranium-238-Tetrairon-Phospholipid in their blood.

The target would be found, Elsep was certain of it -  it was just a matter of time.



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Chancellor Holdith shuffled quietly through the vast echoing corridors of the Golthian Fortress, heat from underground magma coursing up through the thick stone, giving every surface a touch of heat.

Above him Gargoyle carved of stone leered down with merciless ravaging maws.  Gargoyles were no myth on Prakith, they had once been very real, and indeed many believed they still existed in the deeper parts of the cavern strewn planet that had once been the seat of the God-King Andeddu.

Whatever the Gorgoyles of Prakith had originally been they were irreversibly changed by the God-King, and his followers, alchemies into the stone skinned undying creatures that fed myths of worlds across the Galaxy.

Alas thought Holdith, his wiry aged arms carrying large sheaths of paper, the Myth of the gargoyles, and even the Ferric Legions of Prakith would not keep the Sith - the new Sith, not even an echo of those written about in the Librarium of Soltis, away.

Cloak heavy upon him he entered the Thorn room, where the the King, Stafan Dymera, Second of his name, sat upon the Onyx throne, two of his many sons before him squabbling over rights and titles.

Along the walls beneath he carved Gargoyles and the Banner of the Dymera family Ferric Praetorians stood stone still encased in thick Prakith Dura-steel - dull and brownish most would write it off as inferior stock - but Holdith well knew it was as good as any forged across the galaxy from the heated depths of Prakith’s mantle.

Catching the Chancellors Gaze Dymera waved his sons away,

“Boys, boys, we can discuss this later, the Chancellor needs seeing to…”

Indignant the two young men in formal attire, epaulets, sashes and medals upon black, bowed then left still bickering.

When they had left the throne room Dymera sighed.

“Son’s…I envy you, Maram, having only one,”, Dymera had an easy countenance, or at least outwardly, only a fool would doubt the ruthlessness it hid - one could not manage the Dukes of the Kingdom so successfully without it.

“One is far too many at times,” Holdith replied,

“My King…word has just arrived Scelle has fallen,” Holidth proffered the sheath with the details type upon it.

Dymera took it in his left hand, his right stroking his short black-grey beard.

“Of course it has, no doubt the Sky-Sons and Grass Runner gave the Sith a bad taste in their mouth, with all those pretty little poisons,”

The Dymera family had vast experience over the generation both using, and being victim of, the poisons of Scelle.

“My King…the Sith are advancing faster than anyone anticipated…they could be at either Turek, Virmir or Ildun within mere days…”

Holdith need not explain the implications. 

The Kingdom of Prakith’s wealth was in its Legions, its ores and heavy manufacturing - but not in its food production. Most planets in the Kingdom had scant if any arable land, synthesis in algae vats of nutrients was too costly on the scale needed to feed 2 billion - let alone the God-King awful taste! 

80% of the entire Kingdom's food was imported from those three worlds.

If they were to fall to the Sith…well perhaps they could tolerate the loss of Turek and Virmir, but never Ildun, the Emerald Jewel of the agriworlds.  A half dozen times Kings of Prakith had tried to conquer Ildun and failed over the last four centuries, the Magisters there were possible to subdue - for a time - but impossible to manage. 

The Dymera’s own ascension was largely due to their making peace with Ildun ending the costly conflicts three generations prior.  But these Sith…the revolution they had brought to Kaarv, Albon, Keeara, Malignon was something very different, and they were unlikely to either honour Ilduns trade agreements with Prakith, or stop at Ildun.

“...and at our doorstep in a month I know,” Dymera finished for Holdith.  Nothing seemed to be able to stop the Sith, their numbers seemingly endless, their warriors vicious beyond imagining - they had, Dymera had heard - had a minor set back on Kaarv, but they still took the planet all the same.

“..we had enough trouble with the pirate kings of Ygmir without these Sith…uh…what peace is there for the man who wears the crown…” Dymera asked rhetorically

“My King, we must act soon,” Holdith emphasised.

“And we will, Chancellor we will…” Dymera stood smoothing out his simple unadorned black suit,
“The Ferric Legions will make the strength of Praktih known - and keep the commoners of Prakith fed!”

The image of the king slipped away as Valence detached himself from Holdith’s mind, renting his Third level of consciousness to the Phaethon glider, hidden by Nyx Shorud and Veil of mist behind the Golthians fortress nearby mountains.

High Director Anderis instruction had been clear- the Sith were not to get past Prakith - and while Valence and Kestis could slow the Sith with sabotage, they could not stop them - advanced as the Technocracy technology was, they did not have the raw population to stall the Sith.

Prakith did, and its interests were so aligned Valence needed to only amplify existing motives rather than mind dominate the King and Chancellor to see them act.

However they were still imperfect Outsiders.

Valence would use Aetheric Cognitive Override to guide the Prakith generals and admirals battle plans, ensuring they were timed and co-ordinated with Aethan sabotage efforts on Ildun to maximize the damage inflicted upon the Sith.

Prakith would supply the manpower - the Technocracy secretly the strategy and additional weapons of mass devastation -  to end the Sith momentum once and for all.



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The sterile hum of the Genos Ziva was a frantic symphony of purpose.

Dr. Jurahl Fid Calrahn, his usual meticulous calm replaced by a feverish urgency, moved with a controlled speed across the gleaming floor of the primary cryo-chamber.

Before him, dozens of cryogenic pods stood in silent rows, each holding a dormant "Atlantiades" embryo—the genetic marvels born of the Caldoth Protocols.

He worked with a delicate but hurried precision, a fine-tipped needle of polished metal carefully extracting a single gamete, its concentrated aetheric potential glowing in his aether-sight.

He had to be quick; the directive was clear, and success non-negotiable.  All his work over decades has been building to this moment.

His every movement was a silent celebration of the purity of his science, a desperate race to produce a harvest that could satisfy the Director's nigh impossible demand.

Beside him, Jival was a blur of motion at a complex console, her hands flying over aetheric touch-pads.

Her task was no less critical or urgent.

She was preparing the mimetic burst training orbs that would disseminate the intricate knowledge of the insemination protocols across the Technocracy.

Each orb was a vessel of curated, bio-synthesized knowledge, a perfect distillation of the procedure that would allow thousands of technicians to perform the task without fail.

She worked with cold calculation her mind focused on every variable, every contingency.

She spared a glance to Atlantiades, its floating form still in the Kolto tube. No longer naked they had been forced to place a still suit around it to reduce the extreme pheromone emissions that artificially stimulating gamete expression had produced.

Curiously Atlantiades had also began to grow hair, no doubt due to the stimulants mass injected en enable the accelerated harvesting. 

"We have the genetic material," she said, her voice softer, a hint of resignation in her tone.

"We have the knowledge. But we do not have the time." She saw the single-minded focus on Jurahl's face, and knew that he was too far gone to notice.

For him, the science was everything. For her, it was a tool.

They were bound by a shared ambition, but it was an ambition that had brought them to the edge of a precipice, and they had no choice but to leap.

Jurahl did not look up from his work. "We cannot fail," he replied, his voice a strained whisper.

"This is our chance. The future of Genesis Deus depends on this."

His words were an echo of a promise he had made long ago, his devotion to the ideals of Soron Varas, to genetic purity and Genesis Deus that had driven him to this moment.

Jurahls was a personal  crusade against the stagnancy of thought that had permeated the Technocracy, a quest to restore the true radical progressive science of Varas.

The room, which once held only the quiet hum of scientific progress, now felt like the interior of a ticking bomb.

The glow of the extracted gametes, the frantic pulsing of the training orbs, and the ever-present knowledge of Moran's looming deadline—all of it combined to create a sense of overwhelming pressure.

A tension that was not unnoticed by the central, silent figure in the Primary Kolto tank.

A wave of pure, unadulterated joy rippled through the Fae-child’s being, a sensation so intense it was almost overwhelming.

It was a feeling of creation, of propagation, a fundamental drive being answered in a way it instinctively understood even if it could not express that understanding.

Its attention turned, as it often did, to the other to ‘Impes’, who was ‘nearby’.

Her presence a familiar maternal anchor in the strange, temporal world.

The Fae-child’s mental voice, still childlike yet carrying an undercurrent of profound, unknowable power, echoed in Impes’s mind.

 "Impes… Impes feels… spreading."

Impes looked up from her work on the recently delivered the insect harvested toxins from Scelle - the surrender was still being ‘implemented’ by Darth Xol, but already resources of the orange grassed world were flowing back to the fleet.

Impes reached back to the Fae child, it was developing in leaps and bounds cognitively, but still retained a strange naivety.

Setting aside her vials, Impes moved to the map where with every communication with the Fae Child she was narrowing on its physical location.

Simultaneously she reached ‘out’ from the Fae Child to feel the durasteel cords that bound it to small detached pieces of itself.

“Yes I can feel it,” Impes said, suppressing her disquiet, before there had been dozens of ‘small’ fae children.  Now there were hundreds. 

What by Sadows crown are they doing? Impes knew it was the grey armours, it was clear they had the fae child ‘contained’ some how and they were trying to clone the Fae-Child.

The most logical conclusion Impes had was the Grey Armours were trying to breed a clone army of Fae-Children. 

“The part of me that is away bind to other, it ‘inseminates’ and gestates…’ the Fae child thought to her half to itself.

“Can you see any more of what is around you?” Impes tried to refocus its wavering child like attention

At that moment Jival approached the tube, mimetic burst orb in hand, Jivla reached out to the Fae-Childs reproductive network confirming cellular protein patterns.

Impes felt the semi intrusion and almost pulled away but the ‘third’ beings attention was focused on the mundane things of the Fae Childs physical form, seemingly ignorant of the exponential growth in the Fae Childs psychology.

“This one is a Gestator…” the Fae Child noted “Others here are inseminators…”

It took Impes a moment to realise the Fae Child had developed a notion of male and female of sort - but using terminology Impes had never shared - it was clearly learning from those round it as well now.

It is surpassing you Darth Impes the Meditation Sphere warned the Sith Witch

You’ve opened a door you cannot close

Be silent she snapped back, intent on studying if she could the being studying the Fae-child.

In that pause, a moment of innocent curiosity.

"Is Impes… inseminator? Or… gestator?"

The question hung in the telepathic space between them devoid of malice, simply an inquiry from a nascent consciousness trying to categorize and understand the actions it was sensing, the feeling of its own essence being used to create anew, a process that filled it with an unsettling, almost triumphant glee.

Impes, who had been meticulously observing the Fae-child's fluctuating energies, felt a fresh wave of unease wash over her.

The Fae Child did not wait for an answer.  With talon like fingers of telepathic energy it probed at Impes body light years away, learning the technique from Jival who was simultaneously probing it.

Ephemeral, but no less painful, the nails parted the flesh in Impes body exploring her different organs as the Sith Witch fell to the semi-organic floor of the Sphere nearly toppling her vials with her.

The Fae Child’s Talons seemed to multiply and shrink to inspect her at the cellular level focusing intently on Impes womb.

Suddenly as it had started the ‘inspection’ was over. Jival having the protein details she needed, returned to programming the mimetic orb, utterly ignorant of Atlantiades actions.

Impes lurched up feeling sick and soiled as Yn’s little Countess probably did.

“Impes is Gestator,” the Fae Child declared

“My Being is both”

Turek - the Topaz Jewel of the Grinmir Agriworlds.  Sprawling savannah covered nearly a third of the planet, home to hundreds of millions of Pachimerian herd beasts, the gelphent, thickly muscled 600 kilo animals, walking reservoirs of protein, with huge horns, leathery tough hides, nutrient rich lactate to add to the prize.

A closely guarded prize. 

The semi domestic Pachidermian gelphent were fiercely protected by the M’kasa herdsmen, from each other as much as offworlders. 

A man's status depends on the size and quality of his herd, his ability to tame a Bull to ride upon in semi-ritualistic war - to kill a fellow herdsman in combat was expected, but to slay a War-Bull would see your own herdsmen turn upon you.

Even so each year 3 million or more gelphent were ‘of age’ to be harvested, the meat and resources well beyond the needs of the M’Kasa traded for grains from Ildun, weapons from Malignon and Keeara, poisons from Scelle, metals from Kaarv, spices, Zerisium and Cocosae from Albon….

Or so it had been before the Sith had arrived.

Yn read the reports from his scouts on how the M’Kasa had, since the fall of Albon, convened a summit of sorts between the largest herdsmen, elected a ‘Ghalg’ - a kind of emergency war leader - and mustered their forces ready for the coming of the Sith.

All this he took in even as he dirtied his temporarily cleaned and polished little Countess. 

She had, despite all logic, won their little bargain on Scelle - Lord Xol and Jian reporting losses of over 6,000 each, but no matter the arrangement he always won, and enjoyed how, washed and bedeckied in silks and jewels from his conquest, he was able to defile her all over again.

“Well little Countess,” he gasped as he pushed her aside, finished for the moment.

“What shall we do about these tribesmen?”  Yn was in genuine quandary. 

Unlike the more sedentary farmers and factories of other worlds, Tureks wealth lay in its herds, it could not be ruled over from on high as easily, the population needed to remain mobile…but also be subservient.

The M’kasa had gathered nearly a third of the planets herds around a sacred peak along with their armies - a clever move - he couldn’t simply bomb them from orbit, the E-Temmen-Ankis weapons were too imprecise and risked turning the herds whose meat he needed into ash.

Eidea crawled forward, her silken dress - so clean mere hours before - used to clean herself as best she could, Yn as always had remained in his Annunaki Shell for the most part, the bladed spikes of his armour shredding much of the dress to strips.

She had no answer to such matters.

“Perhaps I fight them on their terms, slay their leader in battle and declare myself ‘Ghalg of Ghalgs’...” he thought out loud

It would be costly in Ghoul Skins, he could lose tens if not hundreds of thousands against the gelphent charges…and there was always personal risk in such a battle - he had to balance that against the need to secure the gelphent herds to supply his army with rich sources of protein, lactate, hides and horns.

And then there was the question of who he would give Turek as fief after his inevitable victory - and still how to allocate the former holdings of the late Darth Rael and Zipacan…

Forsaken Gray Armours two Darths they’ve cost me he seethed inwardly - he would have his vengeance on that elusive foe one day

“A contest,” he decided, looking at his little toy ball up in her typical fearful posture, the Tetan countess having lost so soon after she’d ‘won’ on Scelle, so would it be here.

“Darth Jian and Darth Xol,” he decided, two who possessed some of the largest Ghoul-Skin hordes and had already been courting Raels and Zipacna’s former thralls.

Yn encouraged ambition in his Darths, but equally he was careful to prevent any one of them becoming too dominant over the others

“Whichever one can earn the title Ghalg of Ghalgs from the M’kasa in battle can have the planet,”

Thus Yn avoided risk to himself, not so much from battle, but from losing his own Ghoul-skin hordes, appeared to offer a fair prize for a fair effort, and could secure the world.  Whoever ‘won’ he was the true winner. 

“And you little Countess, another bargain,” he reached forward and coarsely grabbed her leg dragging her back to him over the damp filthy rugs of his chamber

“Who do you pick in the contest, Jian or Xol, I’ll take the other. If you pick the winner you will have a dozen M’kasa slave girls to attend and bathe you every day…”

Once more that delightful tiny spark of hope lit in her soiled form, but wavered as she knew the caveat was coming 

“If you lose…then you will bathe and clean all the M’kasa slave girls before and after I enjoy them,”

The small light was snuffed again, and a material portion of that light twisted to despair filled him with energy.

“Well who do you choose?”

Eidea knew virtually nothing of the Darths other than their names.  Yn would admit himself that they were even odds, Jian was an expert at close quarters combat and could easily match the Ghalg in single combat, and his Swords were far more disciplined, but Xol was a more skilled hunter and tracker and likely to find the Ghalg in the vast M’Kasa army first.

“Lord Jian, if it please you my Lord,”

He grinned looking forward to another world, another conquest, and this time a contest to observe.



Eileithyia’s 4th level of consciousness still felt the faint hum of after synaptic ingestion.

She had spent the vast majority of her time during transit on the Varasian taking in the direct direct mimetic burst direct into her Aethenaean Cortex of Darth Rael and Darth Zipacna’s harvested and curated memories and knowledge of the Sith.

It was an extensive and thorough education in the way the Sith operated militarily, culturally and religiously, as well as their skills as respective blade master and precognition expert.

Every one of the 300 Aethans in the briefing room she tentatively entered - in full armour and a glamour just in case -  had experienced the same, granting them exponentially more understanding of their enemy in the space of 78 standard hours of mimetic consumption.

Kestis stood at the centre of the rounded room, a holograph of the Sith fleet disposition projected from the ceiling, beside him Guardian Adaena, who had scouted the Turek system before their arrival just beyond the larrange point.

It never failed to amaze Eileithyia how many ships the Sith had - 3,173 now - they had added over 150 vessels since the invasion began - captured from Malignon, Albon, and Keeara mostly, now daubed with the gaudy symbol of the Sith Supreme Commander Lord Yn - who thanks to those Darths memories every Aethan now knew the name and face of.
 

Rael and Zipacna had understood Yn as a cunning operator, a venal hedonist outwardly - a vicious pragmatist at heart with an insatiable thirst for slaves, power and plunder who revelled in the challenge of conquest and control.

Whether an assassination would be attempted Eileithyia didn’t know.

All things considered she would opt for a strategy of  better the Gaki you know - an obscure and old Aethan saying held over from their Lek’un ancestors and the internecine conflicts of Anzat prime - it was considered better to deal with an enemy warlord you knew and understood than risk engaging a new one you did not.

Yn was now a known quantity whose blunt strengths Kestis and Valens could twist into weakness by focusing on sabotage and subtlety.

Unfortunately neither Darth Rael nor Zipacna knew much about the Siths Uruk-Nab, Denon and Corellian based technology beyond the raw essentials.

Though inferior and inelegant compared to Technocracy technology, the Uruk-Nab vessels in particular had a blunt effectiveness to them the Aethans needed to unlock the weaknesses of.


“Those two…” Kesits pinpointed with a flicker of the aether into the holograph now everyone was assembled, ranks of Phrik armoured soldiers, a few in Noctilith like Eileithyia as they experimented with new armour types.

Deep amidst the enormous swirl of vessels Kestis had pinpointed two of the ‘E-Temmen-Anki’ dreadnaughts whose life signs - and those of all the vessels around them, were considerably lower than the others.

“Guardian Adaena witnessed these two dreadnoughts, their escorts and convoy ships deploy the vast majority of their troops to the surface.  We will infiltrate both vessels, undertake structural and systems mapping exercises, then place on both a Obeliscus Aetheris Distans - the plinths are attuned to Aetheric Quantum Siphoning.

Once placed and we have extracted ourselves, we will utilise the Varisians Obelisk Array to facilitate the Aetheric Quantum Siphoning of a primed Virdilith Warhead with a 0.5 second timer onto each vessel,”

This caused excitement among the group mind, the Technocracy had a stockpile of 282 Virdilith - better known as Naquadha - war heads, but deployment was always a problem.

But to use Aetheric Quantum Siphoning - flash teleporting via the aether that Eileithyia used herself to travel quickly in the tunnels beneath Alixandraea - seemed unfeasible, it took millions of Aeths to translate even a link-orb any few hundred meters, let alone a warhead of ultradense material across a star system.

Kesits sensed this confusion in the group and immediately addressed it.

“The Plinths will create a streamlined aetheric bridge, reducing the aetheric energy required by 93-94% - even so the energy requirement will be vast, which is why boarding teams will number only 10 Guardians each, 30 Guardians will man the Phaethon Gliders and Varasian...the remaining 250 will contribute the energy needed to implement the Aetheric Quantum Siphoning.”

Eileithyia looked at the map once more - the targeted dreadnaughts were deep within the armada - logical - their troops were on the surface and the rest of the fleet were protecting them…

And while the other Sith capital ships kept a distance of no less than 1000km, a Virdilith warhead typically had a blast radius of up to 2,400km - two such explosions would not only annihilate the two dreadnaughts and incinerate their support ships, but also severely damage hundreds of nearby vessels.

If it succeeded.

The group mind rushed with excitement to deliver such an unseen blow to the Sith.

Eileithyia joined their excitement in purging the unclean filth.  Yet questions remained.

“Guardian Primus,” one phirk armoured soldier queried

“Why not deliver the Virdilith warheads with the infiltration teams?”

Kestis nodded appreciating the question

“Two reasons, firstly the physical proximity of such a powerful weapon may trigger either the Sith’s darkside danger sense or other conventional scans if the gliders' cloaks fail - this would instantly bring about a full response from the Armada and imperil the mission - with the bombs kept at the edge of the system this should be avoided. 

Secondly the Obeliscus Aetheris Distans need to be field tested against Sith darkside counter measures.  If we succeed the second phase will be using Mind controlled thralls to palace plinths upon every single major Sith Vessel over the course of the next few months.

Valence is already laying the groundwork for a network of cognitively dominated - or at least influenced - Kallu - these holy men are able to wander the Armada at will and are venerated by the slaves and helots,  making them ideal agents to distribute the plinths as ‘holy objects’ of dark side worship.

He has already succeeded in distributing Observation Orbs via this method.

Then, once we have instigated the Kingdom of Prakith to send its fleet against the Sith, we can strategically teleport more bombs onto Sith vessels during battles to ensure Prakith wins each engagement.

Unfortunately we are limited by having only two obelisk arrays and half a dozen plinths.  The Directorate will not allocate resources to scale up production unless this test succeeds.”

Satisfied, the Guardian nodded his assent, Kestis explanation of the broader strategy gaining the agreement of the whole groupmind. Kestis wanted that support from his soldiers, something Eileityia respected him all the more for.   

“This will not stop the Sith victory on the planet below, but they will be bloodied,”  Kestis cautioned

“Your individual orders will come via link orb momentarily to boarding teams - Aethani Dominabutir Astris, Aethani Dominabutir Mortis, Aethani Dominabutir Vita” he finished with the creed.



The sterile hum of the Genos Ziva's primary storage room was replaced by a feverish, rhythmic energy.

It had been hastily converted into a mass insemination center, with a dozen bio-bays arranged in two precise rows.

Dr. Jurahl Fid Calrahn, his usual meticulous calm now a distant memory, moved between the stations with a focused, almost manic intensity.

At each bay, he oversaw the transfer of the gametes, ensuring the delicate, aetheric processes of the Caldoth Protocols were executed with perfect precision.

His voice, strained but clear, directed the Doctors from across the Whole Directorate who worked in triads to perform the procedure. 

Even having undertaken mimetic burst training from Jivals orbs he still needed to provide a few  hushed telepathic commands to each group, there was certain ‘art’ to the Caldoth procedures that couldn’t be taught and had to be experienced.

Still they were all Aethans and they learned quickly.

Hour by hour women with maximum fertility potential existed, lay upon the form fitting bio beds, underwent the procedure and then headed to the observation rooms.

Jurahl could hardly believe this was happening, Atlantiades multiplying by the dozen, soon the hundred. 

The Zygotes were positively rabid with excitement to bond, indeed insemination seemed to become easier the more procedures were undertaken as it somehow Atlantiades genetic material was ‘learning’ how to adapt to Gen 28 wombs.

Of course such wasn’t possible, Jurahl was sure it was simply himself and the staff getting better acquainted with the intricacies of the binding protocols.

This was his magnum opus, a revolutionary leap forward in Geneisis Deus that would see him entered in the annals of the Technocracy beneath only the Honoured Founder Soron Varas himself,

He carried a shimmering aetheric vessel filled with the Fae-child's vital essence, its ethereal glow a beacon of his single-minded purpose.

Beside him, Jival was a study in cold, efficient control.

While Jurahl focused on the sanctity of the procedure, her mind was a whirlwind of logistics, risk assessment, and political maneuvering.

She monitored the bio-monitors with a calculating gaze, her aetheric senses tracking the subtle energy fluctuations of each procedure.

The room was a factory floor, and she was its foreman, ensuring the process was as flawless and fast as possible.

Her mind was already three steps ahead, anticipating the inevitable repercussions. She knew their accelerated timeline and the scale of the operation would not go unnoticed.

And she was proved right, in the middle of the day with 60 women inseminated since morning the doors opened to admit four Gen 29’s in white leather gromin coats, Noctilith resolution daggers at their side.

Grathoss led his fichas between the rows of beds, glancing at the procedures undertaken on either side.

“An impressive operation,” he said stopping at Jurahl,

“Dr. Jurahl Fid Calhran,” Grathoss said with an easy smile extending his hand

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last,” 

Jival internally shuddered as Jurahl took Grathoss hand, this was the last thing they needed right now.

“And you Director,” Jurahl replied

“I must say I’m impressed by the speed of this rollout, the success you’ve had is astonishing…I wonder Dr. Calhran, or Jurahl, if I may, why its taken so long for you to receive the resources and recognition you clearly deserve,”

He’s playing him like a Xyril… Jival bemoaned. Jurahl was brilliant, ruthless when he needed to be, but Jival was well aware he had a damn complex that he emulating the Founder in being passed over and working on secret on the true path of Gensisi Deus.

“Unfortunately prior Directors were too rigid in their thinking - unable to see that it was time for revolution not just revolution in the next phase of Gensisi Deus,” Jurahl explained

“And Director Piron is more forward thinking?” Grathoss probed as his fichas spread out scrutinizing every procedure under way, keeping a safe distance but snooping nonetheless.

“I would say…in honesty, Director that Director Piron had little choice but to move forward with my procedures, they were the only ones yielding results,”

Grathoss nodded with a smile

“I won’t keep you from this critical work any longer Doctor, I will simply add I am very pleased the Technocracies scarce resources are at last being put to proper use,”

By which you meant the resources you provided us Jival understood 

With a friendly nod Grathoss left his fichas tailing like obedient vorynx pups.

Well that went well Jurahl noted to Jival telepathically.

for Grathoss it did, she replied finally resolving on a response.