Sins of the Aether

[Lord_S_Gray]

****This is a Prequel to my other 'Aether' Stories, sharing the grand Forumverse continuity but I hope able to stand as its own tale of a lost era of the galaxy*****

Prologue

****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*****

Corellian Trade Spine

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.

 

<<<<< >>>>>

Deep Core ‘Danger Zone’ — Aethas

"...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.

[Lord_S_Gray]

 

Prologue

Deep Core ‘Danger Zone’ — Aethas

...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.

<<<<< >>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Dramatis Personae

Dramatis Personae

The Deep Core

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 1

Aethas — Alixandraea

“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.

<<<<>>>>

Cinnagar — Empress Teta System

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.

<<<<>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 1

Cinnagar — Empress Teta System

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?

<<<<>>>>

Aethas — Beneath Alixandraea

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.

<<<<>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 1

Aethas — Alixandraea — Eclessia — Directorate Conference Room

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.

<<<<>>>>

Cinnagar Orbit — Empress Teta System

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!”

<<<>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 1

Aethas — The Ecclesia

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.

<<<<>>>>

[TheDutchman]

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.

[Lord_S_Gray]

Addendum - Lord Yns Forces

Addendum Aethas - Key Locations

[TheDutchman]

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!

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 2

Upper Elysian Road Hyperspace Route to Keeara Major

“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.

<<<<>>>>

Aethas - Ecclesia - Under Levels

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 - Tyrants Citadel

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.

<<<<>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

 

Chapter 2

Aethas — Gaia-Ziva - Directorate of Nutritiology and Ecology HQ

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“...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.

<<<<>>>>

Keeara Major - Industrial District

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.

<<<<>>>>

[Lord_S_Gray]

 

Chapter 2

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.

<<<<>>>>

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.

<<<<>>>>

[TheDutchman]

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 

[Lord_S_Gray]

Chapter 3 - Part 1

Upper Elysian Road Hyperspace Route to Aethas

“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.
 

<<<<>>>>

Keeara Major - Industrial District

“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,”

<<<<>>>>>

Keeara Major Orbit  — Malevolens Mictlanis

****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,”

<<<<>>>>