Rebirth (Original-Free Federation)

[Imperial Overlord]

For the last couple of years a bunch of ideas have bumped around in my head. Some of them are extremely derivative or just one step beneath outright stolen from other works, the whole universe is jury rigged mess to make it all work, and a touch of Mary Sueism in there as well. Still, the ideas do seem to percolate and develop on their own and one might find them entertaining to read them for free. So, in a "what the hell" frame of mind, is a piece from my brain's slush pile.


Vintar City
Shadowcatch
The Free Federation

"The Bloody Kiss" was a seedy bar in a city that hadn't been prosperous in over half a millenia. Shadowcatch, once the capital world of the Free Federation and the axis point of the Grand Alliance, was now a world, well actually a star system, in gentle decline. Every year its population decreased as more and more people emigrated to other worlds and real opportunities. Malcontents and would be hermits drifted here in smaller numbers, either finding homes in its crumbling cities or losing themselves in a wilderness that was slowly reclaiming the world.

Out in the black the great industries had mostly been destroyed by the war and there was no effort to rebuild. In fact, that was the last thing the government wanted. So instead Shadowcatch gradually wasted away, a victim of malign neglect.

Vorlar Kadril stepped into the bar and down the steps that took him into the sunken room. It was high ceilinged and red lit, as expected of a place that embraced a vampire motif. Chains and meat hooks hung from the ceilings. Dark clad and pale faced would be rebels, many of them cosmetically altered to resemble the long dead vampire lords that had once resided in Shadowcatch, awesomely powerful bioengineered warriors that were now mostly legend, sipped drinks in silence. More than a few stared at him. This was not a place a sick went in alone and yet here he was a sick not just alone but openly wearing a one piece suit of soft armour with Security Directorate badges and an overcommander's starbursts around his neck.

Vorlar acted like he wasn't committing suicide by coming into this place alone and strolled over to the bar, which was set up in a well at the center of the room. Holoprojectors on the bar painted portraits of dead and gone vampire lords who had honourably perished fighting the Slaver Lord Autarchs and thus not been branded traitors. A careful skirting of the law.

The bartender was dark for an inhabitant of Shadowcatch. Heavy set and muscular, without much fat. Silver augments replaced his eyes. He looked up at the pale skinned, dark haired security man and said bluntly "what do you want?"

"You know me, don't you?" said Kadril.

"Yeah, I know who you are. You've got the old time aug work and personal shields. Tear the place apart barehanded. I've seen you kill chain dog."

In another time, in another place, that insult would have been just this side of mortal. But that time and place were gone forever, just like Darkhold's vampire lords and Darkhold itself. Tourists still came to see the crater. Vorlar let the insult pass. Too few remembered anything from the old days, the glory days, for him to feel more anger than joy at finding someone who still clung to anything real from it. Besides, he was right in a way. "I'm looking for Evard Zarune. You know better than to lie to me."

"Yeah," said the bartender, "I know what you can see with IS's eyes." He turned and pointed. "He's the guy who is drinking the expensive corraise."

Vorlar advanced on the table. Corraise was only mildly acoholic, thick, and syrupy sweet. It was popular here because it wasn't the worst way to get drunk and it resembled human blood, which helped the losers and would be anarchist rebels maintain their vampire shtick.

There were three people at the table. One had gotten a very good biosculpt so he looked like Lamech, the second male was tall, wiry, and probably wired, and the woman was a pale, dark haired girl wearing leather and chrome. "Evard Zarune," Vorlar said.

"That would be me," the Lamech clone replied. He was a little less flashy than the original, wearing a black leather duster over a dark red silk shirt, and black slacks. Gold buttons gleamed on his shirt front. He was albino pale with cat-slit ice blue eyes and dead white hair.

"You others, leave." They hesitated, eyes flickering to the wannabee as if he really was the mighty Nazarian warlord from times gone by. Vorlar had seen Lamech in the flesh three times, once up close and the scuplt was an excellent piece of work. Of course, there existed so many images of Lamech to work from that posing as Lamech wasn't exactly a job requiring a Class Six Alpha infiltrator-assassin.

With a flick of his hand Zarune dismissed his lackies. "How may I assist you overcommander?" he asked in voice that was all sweetness and reason. Like Lamech when he toyed with prey.

"Your name has come up in an investigation."

"I confess, I don't like the current government. Won't be voting for them in the next election. I think that's it for my questionable activities."

"Do that again and you'll be in for hard interrogation." A flicker of fear ran over Evard's features. The punk talked tough and could act tough, but he knew where the real power lay. "Now, are you going to play nice?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. Your involvement with Jarune Riskol?"

"I met him. Have friends who bought recreationals from him. Lent them some money. That's all."

"You're lying. That was stupid." He seized the punk's wrist.

"Please!" he said in a high pitched whine. "Please no!"

"Truth."

"I wanted to score a deal with him. Make money. Just a little on the side. Nothing political! Just a black score!" Evard was just this side of crying.

"Alright," said Kadril. He jerked the little punk to his feet. "I don't give a flying fuck about the black market. But you drew my attention and now you get what you've been asking for ever since you got that fancy face scuplt. Trouble." He dragged Evard behind him as he headed for the stairs. No one barred his way. No one dared.

The streets were pretty quiet, but that was too be expected at this hour. In a half deserted city, only government workers and faux vampires were up this late. Everyone else was sensibly in bed, excepting the vice trade of course. He pulled Evard toward his flier.

The faux vampire slipped out of his grasp with shocking speed. Vorlar Kadril had received the best augments Free Federation science and sorcery could provide for Internal Security's slayer elite back in the day when the business of the state was total war. Evard was now gripping his wrist and slamming him into the side of a decaying and abandoned tenement.

"It occurs to me," said Lamech, "that Jarune really screwed things up. Any other chain dog I could just take, but your defences are too strong for me to reorder your thoughts, aren't they traitor? No need to answer."

Kadril drew his gun with his free hand and spun, his left wrist still held by Zarune. He could see the shields now active around Zarune. Merciless gods. He dropped the gun. No point, not against those shields. Forty lethal centimeters of orange-gold orichalcum slid out of his wrist, runes glowing with blue fire. Even those shields wouldn't repel the blade.

Kadril's shoulder exploded, bones knives flaying flesh. His heart rate slowed, auto injectors pumped healing agents and hypercoagulants into his blood stream. He slumped back. Evard let him go.

"Your weakness is disgusting," said the Eldest of All Dragons, Savior of Mankind, Waster of Worlds, Prince of the Night, Godslayer, and a host of other titles. He kicked Kadril away from him, cracking reinforced bones and causing the agent to bounce off the tenement wall. "Since when did Internal Security's best fail to fight merely because they lost an arm? Your masters have made you weak."

None of the old guard would use Lamech's features without his expressed permission, Kadril realized. Not unless they had changed radically in their long exile, but for the truly ancient what was five hundred years compared to millenia old habits? Kadril got to his feat. "Why now?" he asked.

"You know why already," said Lamech. "We are twice unfortunate that Jarune was sloppy enough to be caught and that of all their agents they sent you here. Well, they didn't really send you, did they? Overcommanders don't arrest minor subversives. You must truly love your job to go and play in the gutters pretending to be a real citizen of the state so often? Still feel you picked the right side?"

"Hurry up and kill me," said Kadril.

Lamech smiled. "What if I don't want to kill you fast and instead decide to kill you slow? How long before a force arrives that can even challenge me?"

"As you will," Vorlar replied wearily.

"You don't get off that easy," said Lamech. With a sound like broken glass a dark rent appeared in space before him. It swiftly expanded until it was almost three meters high. "Harbinger, let them know from this point on all their days are numbered. All the gods may be dead, but dead is not enough to overcome the corpse that walks."

[Ford Prefect]

Very interesting. Nice lead in to a universe, really.

[Imperial Overlord]

The Spike
Shadowcatch
The Free Federation

Security Directorate headquarters on Shadowcatch was a kilometer long tower called The Spike. The Spike was designed with intimidation in mind while eschewing the gothic touches that had been favored by the Lords of Darkhold. The Spike was clean, aniseptic. Rumours abounded of levels devoted to torture chambers and space-folded containment zones full of unspeakable horrors, but the real terror in The Spike was mechanical. Thousands of sentients acting in tandem with vast databanks and countless computers with links all over the world overseeing the death of civilization. Like a glacier it ground to pebbles all who stood in its way while maintaining the pretence of being part of a responsible government. The lie fooled no one.

Vorlar Kadril sat cross legged between six adepts of an art that was called sorcery by ancient man and The One Power by the Free Federation at its height. There were few with the training and the activated gene codes who could peform it now, although its practitioners had once been the iron fist of the Free Federation. That was a bygone era, one that Vorlar Kadril had thought he had seen the last of. Until last night.

The adepts collectively breached the barriers between the dimensions and strong armed physical law to allow instantaneous FTL communication with Nandrezz, nearly fifty light years away. Holoprojections of the cabinet appeared around Kadril.

The saurian snout of Siscilar Thredeel twitched. He was Sithi and his race had founded and built the Free Federation, accepting and nurturing human beings among them as junior partners in their civilization, until Naomar Kordassi bioweapons had decimated their population. Still, their language was still the tongue of the Free Federation and their contributions were many. "What was so urgent that required an emergency meeting?" Minister for Public Security hissed. His colleagues looked expectantly for an answer.

"I encountered a vampire lord last night who I believe to be Lamech."

"Ridiculous," said Sariya Cardonni.

"A clever fake. This is not worth our time," said the Prime Minister."

"It could have been a fake," said Kadril, "there is plenty of sound and image data on Lamech. But the faker would have to be willing to assume his identity. And dracul to pull off what he did. Either way, it represents a serious matter."

"You were correct to bring this to our attention Kadril," Siscilar hissed. "Your evaluation of the incident?"

"Lamech opened a rift behind in a planetary shadow and then drifted in system in a hibernation state. Reentried, shape shifted, and teep scanned his way through the population to make contacts and evaluate the present situation. In my opinion, whether or not he was really Lamech, he was vanguard agent. I believe the state to be in danger." It felt wrong calling the Free Federation the state. The state was a corpse cannibalized by those with enough wealth to secure their power, their deeds made legal by politicians who were bought and paid for in one way or another.

"Why did he let you live?" Siscilar hissed. "What would a real vampire lord gain from that? It makes no sense."

"Not if you are a believer in the power of fear. Whatever survivors lead them, whatever new blood has risen in their ranks, the old ones will leave their stamp on their thinking. The dreadlords. Those who could banish fear from the hearts of their soldiers by their very presence and those whose names filled their enemies with terror. They wish to cripple us before their fleets even make transit back into Known Space. And then there are the less practical reasons."

"Incaradine," said the Prime Minister.

"He or his descendants will have rank among them. The Lord of Vengeance and all his line will wish to savor the fear the very idea of their return spreads."

"Foolish," hissed Siscilar. "When the last Slaver Lord died, they outlived their usefulness. Even to their own cause it appears. Use whatever manpower you need to root this out. Whatever equipment and expense you require. Burn them out."

"Your will," said Vorlar Kadril.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Reaver class Battlecruiser Bloody Hand
Deep Space
Near the Free Federation


"You took a risk," said Incaradine Hellsreaper e'Kail e'Zarana, Paingiver, Lord of Vengeance, Kinslaughter, and Protector of the Innocent. The First Lord of Death was a hair over one point nine meters and possessed the flawless physique of one of Darkhold's ancient lords. His hair was dark brown with a hint of red and his eyes glittered blue. At the moment, his skin was pale.

"Neither of us are strangers to risk," Lamech replied as he leaned back on Incaradine's bed. He was dressed now in robe with elaborate scarlet and gold patterns. Incaradine's cabin was spartan in the old style, which meant his wives were not with him. That would not have pleasant effects on Incaradine's temper, although his iron self control was legend. It had to be. He would have never been promoted to overcommander, let alone legate, if he had not been able to control his volcanic temper and his inherited sadistic streak. Even in the six century of the Slaver War, there had been concerns about what he had been growing into be. That his worst instincts were only unleashed against the Slaver Lords had been sufficient for the Free Federation. The Slaver Lords had destroyed any capacity the Free Federation had for mercy long before that.

Incaradine leaned forward in his chair. His uniform was unrelieved black, with the full starburst and black moon insignia of a legate on his neck flashes and the gold epaulets of an emperor, war leader of the entire Free Federation, on his shoulders. He wore the trench coat popularized by Kail, his mentor and friend, over his uniform. Patches could still be seen on the shadowsilk coat, old connections never abandoned. The five stars of the Free Federation on one, the skull breathing green flames of the Third Legion of the Dark Guard, and the exploding planet of the Fifth Legion of the Dark Guard. Five hundred years and it had not changed.

"No," said Incaradine, "we are not strangers to risk. But I do not like this one. You should have killed him and reaped his soul. They would have found nothing."

"And they would look everywhere. He was a former Witch Hunter, one of Reeze's killer elite. The number of necromancers in their space is numbered in hundreds and not all of them could reap. They would know something powerful killed him and was hiding and they would look everywhere. Now they look for me and I shall lead them away. Keeping the enemy's attention hooked on the wrong part of the battlefield was one of your favorite tactics, if I recall correctly."

"You do," said Incaradine. "Too much is riding on this."

"That didn't hold you back on Zergone or in the Cathedral of Knives."

"True."

"Relax. This isn't the first time I've held the fate of the entire spiral arm in my hands."

[Ford Prefect]

This story is really hooking me in. I may have seen sci-fi/fantasy mixes before, but this is one I like, simply because it feels gritty. Not in the brutal way of 40k, but gritty none the less.

[Imperial Overlord]

Palzeen Security Zone
Nazar
Former Nazarian Domain
The Free Federation

Sehestess Nelees clicked her talons against the desk as she speed processed the data rolling down the screen. Direct linking would be more efficient, but at her position and above, direct linking cyber was considered fine for subordinates and ambitious junior execs, not for responsible and sober seniors.

She half watched the usual line of security updates with a she considered a transfer to a more pleasant posting. Five hundred years of occupation had only taught the Nazarians to act on their hatred judiciously. The list trailed off towards the end and that's when she saw Lamech's name. She almost fell out of her couch.

She activated the subdermal link to her mike. "All department heads. Meeting. Now." She rose off her stool, he tail thrashing. Her claws went click-click-click on the marble floor. She liked the sound. It was so very useful when she wanted to put the fear into her juniors.

Palzeen had been contracted to assist the Free Federation's military with the post-war occupation of various worlds in the Nazarian Domain. Due to having no shortage of friends in the new government, more and more contracts were made available and Palzeen's security forces took on broader powers and wider responsibilities. This then made certain other business opportunities more attractive as they were already getting paid to run large chunks of whole star systems in the manner in which they would prefer. Five hundred years later and Palzeen was running most of the Domain, although accountable to the Senate and the Local Governing Authority.

She shettled into the contoured couch at the head of the conference room and awaited for her juniors to arrive. It didn't take long. The other Sithi wore the utility harnesses and badge accessories common to them while the humans wore either business tunic or jackets over pants and a dress shirt or the khaki uniform of Palzeen United's security troops. They all looked at her anxiously.

She uncoiled from her resting position, resting on her four hind legs while gesting with her arms. "A vampire lord was found on Shadowcatch. He wore Lamech's face and claimed his identity." Falsely claiming the identity of a great lord had been a severe crime and social taboo back in the old days, before the war. Those who fled into exile would not to have been likely to change that. "He escaped."

"What degree of verification?" asked Jenal Sul-Retan, a native Nazarian and one of the few working in Palzeen's security forces. She had been subjected to a very thorough and expensive mind probe before being retained.

"A Directorate overcommander who knew him before the war saw him up close. No genetic material recovered, however."

"So we have a 'possible'?" said Kenar Sturm, an ambitious and empty jun exec with a senior exec mother and an uncle in the Senate. "That doesn't sound so bad."

"It isn't. On Darkhold. Here the whole population still worships him as a god and is . . . . restive. Here we have actual vampires still popping up. The last incident killed sixty-seven of our men and we didn't catch him. In fact, we aren't even sure if it was male. This news will leak, because it always does, and it will incite the populous." Which was bad news on a planet where the terminally ill often decided to go out with a suicide bombing. The Nazarians were pissed and they kept handing down that legacy of pride and hatred through every generation.

"We won't have to worry about him showing up here," said Sul-Retan.

"Why not?" Sturm asked. "These are his people?"

"Exactly. They have kept the Compact, even if Nalhen hasn't been able to keep up his end. When he returns, it will be with a warfleet and that will be the end. Of everything."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Stadia Station
Cormark System
The Free Federation

Pevel Milintree smiled as he sat down at the bar. The room, which was huge and included a ten meter diameter sky light that looked out onto space, was crowded and the blonde next to the school was nova hot. "Excuse me, is this seat taken?" He flashed his best smile, which was damn good.

She smiled back. She was wearing a spaghetti strap black dress which looked really good on her. Her eyes were blue and her hair was in a fashionable bob which looked quite good on her. "No, not at all. Mind if I call you nine?"

"Nine? Oh, I'm not the first. Well, do I get to do my thing or am I already suffering main drive failure?"

"You're not doing too bad so far," she said with a smile.

"Cool." He extended his hand. She took it. "Pevel Milintree. He clicked his watch, sending a data stream to her. "This way I can tell my boss I was just working the crowd."

She laughed. "Alright Pevel. Eva Morin." She took a slim white card out of her purse and handed it to him. "We're all just networking, right? All business, the good time bit is just incidental."

He chuckled and took the card. "A card? This is beyond old fashioned. Positively archaic." Black letters scrolled up the card. "Whew! And here I was worried it total throwback. Transtream Transportation huh? Actually, the whole thing works well. Old fashion, but with class and the right touch of tech."

"Thanks, although I didn't come up with them myself. Higher up's idea. I'm just a sales rep."

"So what does Transtream Transportation do?"

"High end personal vehicles. Building, design, and customization. We build everything from boats to shuttles and have done custom jobs on FTL couriers."

"So your here to hook the big fish and sell them stuff?"

"In part. Also selling custom jobs to security bureaus. When execs are on the move, they want to be safe and have all the comforts at the touch of a finger."

"Ahh. Well, I'm a lowly sales drone too. The ugly side. Guns, armour, the whole nine yards."

"Well, you do work for Tri-Stellar Consolidated. What do your guys say? Everything from hand guns to battlecruisers?"

"Everything from hold outs to the dragon's teeth," he quoted. "That's slang for the accelerator cannons in a cap ship's nose or bow or whatever the fuck they call it."

"Why don't you buy me a drink and tell me all about it."

[Raj Ahten]

This story and universe are giving me all kinds of good vibes. I'm definitely feeling some Warhammer 40k and perhaps some Vampire Hunter D here. It looks like one of those universes where the leaders of the military also happen to be the most bad ass fighters around. Looking forward to more.

[Imperial Overlord]

Legion killing sorcerers do not lead from the rear and are harder to kill (especially in the case of vampires or necromancers) than ordinary humans. Given the Slaver Lords' widespread use of assassination and the high priority given to taking out sorcerers and generals, the really powerful ones are over represented in the high ranks simply by virtue of survival. Add to that the expensive educations lavished on them and their ability to outlive mere mortals, even with rejuvination tech, and you've got a sorcerer and vampire heavy leadership.

[Imperial Overlord]

The Guildhouse
SerethaSithes
The Free Federation

Vorlar Kadril walked down the empty halls of the Guildhouse. The dark ziggurat was a massive structure that could accommodate tens of thousands, a literal arcology and it functioned as one. Once its membership had been too many for even it to house, but that was a long time ago and now it was much diminished in both size and power. Kadril had seen no one since he entered. If they were housing thousands, they hid it well.

Wall screens had directed down a series of softly lit corridors using a computer generated soft, female voice. The final door slid open, revealing a spacious and dimly lit room. A black marble desk sat in the center of the room and a bald human male of the indeterminate age of a multiple rejuv sat behind behind it in a contoured chair. He wore a simple grey suit. He was the kind of pale that used to be jokingly called 'a starship tan' or a 'Darkhold sunburn' in the old days."Welcome," the grand master said.

The spartan furniture of the room gave the lie to that statement. The Slayers' Guild was playing petty power games. Well, fuck them. "I have a contract that needs to be fulfilled."

The nameless grand master didn't blink. "Nature of the contract?"

"I want Rike."

"Slayer Rike is semi-retired. He only accepts contracts of his choosing."

"You're the grand master. Give him his marching orders. We'll pay extra."

"You have forgotten much in the last five hundred years Vorlar Kadril. The Guild was old before there ever was a Free Federation. Our laws and traditions are ancient and not broken by the whims of politician's lackey. Your master's wealth cannot buy our obedience in this matter. Rike accepts only the contracts he cares to take, save for those commanded by him of the Guild and we have no reason to command him."

"Things have changed."

"That is the nature of the universe. The Guild was born, the Sithi reclaimed space, their nations spread to the stars, and the Guild went with them. Some of them united to form the Free Federation and the Guild was there. They met the Lios Elvindar and the Naomar Kordassi and the Guild was there. An exodus of humans entered known space and the Guild was there. The Slaver War occurred and the Guild was there. The Long Peace, the Resurgency, the Black Rebellion, and the fall of the Grand Alliance. We were there. Five hundred years later and we are still here. Times change. The Slayers' Guild endures."

"Your numbers are diminished. Your prestige is a memory. A hundred corporations offer security services and soldiers. You would be wise to cultivate a better relationship with your government."

"And yet you are here. Your Security Directorate of thugs and eaves droppers are insufficient. Your problem is so serious that you need Rike. A dreadlord has returned."

Kardil glared at him. "It is the only reason you would be so adamant that it be Rike. You need someone lethal and survivor of that era. Someone who can assemble the right kind of team. A team beyond you. Your Directorate is, after all, concerned with keeping your political masters and their corporate employers interests running smoothly, not killing Slaver Lords."

"Just get me Rike."

"You'll have to go to him. As per his instructions, any client has to go and speak with him personally."

"Fine. Where is he?"

"Alarind."

"You're kidding."

"No. Rike was somewhat suspicious of the terms of the amnesty. He took it, but relocated to somewhere where he was protected. House Panther fought for the Black."

"I remember."


Entry Station
Alarind
House Panther
The Grand Court of the Stars

The painted ivy curling around the pillars and walls of the arrival area helped relieve the antiseptic feeling Kadril always got from places like this. He was dressed in a simple black jacket and pants, with a white shirt underneath. The look the Lios Elvindar woman at the terminal he was passing was glacial.

She was good looking. Red hair down to her shoulders, nearly two meters tall, almond shaped green eyes, pointed ears, and the delicate features one expected from the Elvindar. Twenty-five thousand years, give or take, and a lot of genetic engineering by the Kordassi separated them from their human cousins. Their failure as a source of janissaries for the Kordassi had lead to the creation of their Zarkos cousins and then eventually to the vampires that were never quite compleated before the empire fell. The Lios were beautiful and often friendly. It was easy to forget that their inhumanly sharp senses, grace, and speed existed because it made them better killers. Looking into the custom agent's eyes, Kardil didn't have any trouble remembering.

It couldn't be helped. If Kadril had lied about his rank and employment and they discovered anything amis, and since they were likely to scan the fuck out of him it was likely they would find his augments, then they would probably shoot him out of hand. The alternative was everyone knowing about it and hating him. Shitty choices, but he took the one that didn't even up with him being fried by an energy lance.

The guards watched him as he went past. Three of them wore the black accented with white, segmented plate armour of the Lios Elvindar. The fourth had spikes and blades projected from night black armour and an even bigger beam lance cradled in his hands. A House Panther emblem was on his right shoulder and murder-knives were clearly visible. A Zarkos. Great. He had heard survivors of the Zarkos Houses had taken refuge with their kin, but that was different than seeing them walking around in full harness.

Eyes watched him go as he went through the departure area. It creeped him out. The Lios must have decided to share his identity with the rest of the facility. Great. At least they didn't normally walk around with blades, poison, and any number of sinister guns like their Zarkos semi-cousins.

The city was nothing special, not if you have already seen a Elvindar city. It did make Vorlar somewhat nostalgic as the Free Federation no longer built cities like this, mixing park space and huge pristine towers with road ways snaking their way through and connecting everything. It was a city designed to make a mockery of privilege and make beauty and splendour available to all. It was paradise and he was not welcome.

Arranging transport was easy enough. A sleek deep blue rental auto was made available and soon enough he was outside the confines of the city and down a major road into the countryside. It took him almost an hour to get there and he almost missed the turn off.

The exit lead him to a small town, really a support and supply center for the various vacation homes and lodges around there. He drove beneath a canopy of tree branches until he reached a sprawling house with a huge lawn on the shore of a small lake. The sun was out and everything was bright and beautiful.

A brown skinned man was reclining in a hammock. Vorlar got out of the car and approached. "Hello the house!" he called out.

The man in the hammock got up. He was barefoot and bare chested, wearing only long black shorts. His hair was black and his physique was muscular. On his left cheek he bore a silver brand, an upside down pentagram. An old symbol, meaningful only to those who dug through the detrius of old religions. Rike had been asked why he had taken it several times and given different answers on every occasion. Kadril was of the opinion he did it to stand out.

"Slayer Rike."

"Vorlar Kadril. What does a corporate chain dog want with me? You have no jurisdiction here. Your masters destroyed the Grand Alliance, remember?"

"The Zarkos and the Nazarians were hardly neutral. And I work for the state."

"The state? The state is dead, its corpse propped up so the maggots have a better view of the choice bits. I fought for the state. I sent Slaver Lords to the boneyard. You repaid the men who broke the Autocracy by sending them on the Death Express when they fought domestic tyrants instead of foreign ones."

"Those 'domestic tyrants' were the lawfully elected government."

"So was Adolf Hitler."

"Who?"

"Terrani. Never mind. Hurry up and say what you are going to say so you can leave."

"I saw Lamech. He's back."

"Fuck that. Cunning Loki would have left you in pieces or a brain burned corpse if he got his hands on you."

"Not if it served his purpose or fed his ego to leave me alive."

"I wish him all the best."

"If they return in force, the first move the government makes will be to destroy all questionable elements. No one wants to face dreadlords on the ground. Not in any real numbers."

"So?"

"I can think of a questionable element that has both ships in space and brothers and sisters on the ground. Old timers, who still regularly use the top of the line gear and have the top of the line augments and have reason to dislike the current regime. I wonder how long it will take a battleship to crack the Guildhouse's defences?"

"What do you want?"

"Assemble a team. Hunt them for me. I don't have the time it takes to train and equip a team to that level."

"How can you possibly trust me to deliver on that?"

"Regular mind probe."

Rike walked up to him. "Well, since that's the way its going to be might as well say this to your face: you had better watch your back for the rest of your existence because I remember what we used to do to Slaver Lords and I'll puppeteer you from my roof it I get half the chance."

"The mind probe does help make these kinds of conversations so much more honest. I've got one or maybe two more rejuvs before my body goes. I don't have sorcery maintaining me and I've already beaten ninety-five percent of the populace when it comes to rejuv tolerance. Odds are I'll be dead in bed with a couple of high priced hookers or Lamech's fist through my skull long before you get the chance to puppeteer me."

[Ford Prefect]

Ah Vorlar, you do have a way with words.

[Imperial Overlord]

The Mercy Seat
Aurora
The Free Federation

In the history of the Free Federation, no order had been as powerful, influential, and honoured as the necromancer lords of Darkhold. From Zerakis's exodus to Zerana's reign and Kail's leadership and their fall under Incaradine, the fate of Darkhold's lords shaped the Free Federation. Nature abhors a vacuum and the natural successors to that exalted position of leadership were their ancient rivals the White Winds.

The Winds had provided soldiers and healers and scientists to the Free Federation for centuries. An eternal argument had waged between the two great societies as Darkhold's ruthless lords embraced whatever measures would bring them victory and the White Winds belief that some lines should not be crossed. They had fought side by side against the Slaver horror, but stood on opposite sides of the civil war. The White Winds had been among the victors, but precious few of the spoils fell there way. The government was not interested in allowing any order of sorcerers stand in judgement or wield power over them.

The leaders of the White Winds, most of whom were human, began to filter into a large room at the apex of their school's central dome. Massive armourplex windows let in enough sunlight for artificial lighting to be unnecessary. The room encompassed a ring shaped table capable of sitting exactly a hundred men and women. They wore white military style uniforms and body armour, robes, or light blue Free Federation uniforms. It took almost a half an hour for everyone to arrive.

Augusta Riaz, The Angel of Fire, presided over the meeting. She had light brown skin and was slightly on the short side, with the marks of age just beginning to appear on her face. A few strands of white were beginning to appear in her dark hair. "Brothers and Sisters," she began, "we are not gathered here for a pleasant occasion. Lamech has been seen and if he is active, so are the others."

"The government has called upon us to make ourselves available to fight in the coming conflict."

A ferocious, red haired young man shouted. "The calling of this order is not to be the iron rod used by corrupt politicians to beat vicious necromancers! Let them both burn!"

"You seem to have forgotten," said a dark haired, petite woman, "that the necromancers excel at holding grudges. Does anyone else remember the war cry of the Third Legion? The Corpse Eaters who gained their name when Incaradine was in their ranks? No Mercy, No Pity, No Quarter! Do you think they have forgotten us or the blood of their lovers and kin on our hands? Have we forgotten that avenging their loved ones lies at the core of what they are? If they have their way, a final night will fall and none of us shall every wake from it. We can fight or perish, for they shall hound us to the end of the galaxy and to the worlds beyond if they have to."

Murmurs of agreement greeted her words. "Let us not be so hasty. This is not lost Darkhold," said a greying man wearing a white uniform. "Some of us bare the sin of shedding the blood of the Black and we will answer for it, but since when did the White Winds trade principle for expedience? Not all of our number are soldiers. Should we not decide whether or not the cause is worthy before committing to it, or has morality become another old fashion value to be left at the wayside?"

"The Black will show us no mercy," said the petite woman. "Should we meekly go to the chopping block? I have no love for what has happened to the Free Federation in the last two centuries-" a derisive snort from the old man interrupted her. She continued, "but our predecessors would have had no love from Zarana's militarized state but they accepted it and fought as part of it against the Slaver Lords.

"Why are we even arguing?" asked a Sithi wearing a harness of white metal. "We are citizens of a society under threat from an external foe? We are obligated to defend it, even if we hate the current government."

The red head replied. "Because this isn't an external foe. This the second act of a civil war. Let them both hang."

"There is another option," said the old man. "Darkhold was never in the habit of lying. Let us ask their lords their intentions to us?"

"Ask for truth in a shadow war?" the red head sneered. "Besides, how are we to get word to them even if we wanted to?"

"You're assuming they won't find out what occurs in this room," said the old man. "That the Killing Machine does not sit among our number. And if he is not here, then where is he?"


Celestial Hotel
Nova Castio
Sky's End
The Free Federation

Pevel stretched and watch the sunrise through the window. "Hey, you awake?"

Eva rolled over in bed, half covered by the sheets. "Unfortunately." She cracked open an eyelid.

Pevel came back to the bed. "You should see this sunrise."

She propped her head up on her elbow. "Second best thing I can see right now."

Pevel smiled. "I bet you say that to all the handsome young reps."

"Only the ones I go on vacation with."

"Liar. You just want me for my contacts."

"Bullshit. If that was the case I would have fucked one of the first three people who hit on me that night instead of you. That's business." She sprung up and grabbed the back of his head. "This is for fun." She kissed him hotly. "See the difference?"

"Maybe you should explain it to me again. I didn't quite get it." She pulled him back to the bed and explained everything in great detail.

[Imperial Overlord]

New York City
Terra
United States of America

It was an old joke that New York was the capital of the world and in some ways it was true. It was the commercial and interplanetary transportation hub for the United States, the strongest nation of old Terra. The starport that sprawled from city and onto the ocean connected the terrestrial states with the orbital stations that dealt with traffic from the states and territories throughout the Sol System and in half a dozen other star systems as well as trade with other powers.

The city itself was a mix of old and new, ancient art deco next to modern towers of alloy and transpex. All the peoples of Earth could be found within and a few visitors from other stars, squat and toad-like Kordassi and sinuous Sithi alike called the city home.

In one of the older sections of the city, which carried the name of Brooklyn but would be unrecognizable to an resident of that borough from two or three centuries earlier, Salweta fished around her box of take out with a pair of chopsticks while looking down into the apartment of the target of her surveillance. Both the buildings had been built in a hard retro style, which hearkened back to the more elaborately decorated buildings of the early twentieth century. Cybernetic eyes, courtesy of the Security Directorate, negated the need for binoculars or a telescope at this range. She found a prawn and popped it in her mouth. "Prawns and black bean sauce," she said. "I love Terra."

Alzador snorted. "You're fucking with me, right? This dustball? Yeah, birthplace of humanity and that, but really?" Like his partner he was wearing a gun and shield harness over shirt and slacks. The war gear would be almost invisible under a jacket, but there was no need for that inside the apartment.

"Sure the tech sucks, but food's good and the cities are nice."

"Where did you grow up?" he asked the dark skinned woman.

"Shaltae."

"Ugh," he replied. He reached for one of the take out boxes. He was long and lean, with the typical colouring of a Free Federation human, which was to say light brown skin and dark hair. Salweta was dark and average height, but compact. She was damn strong, even before receiving the augmentation that went along with being a plain clothes Directorate agent. "That place is the epitome of shit hole mining planets. Did three months there as part of training."

"That's easy. Try growing up there. The corps practically run it as a personal fief. The only thing they like paying for is politicians."

"Fuck 'em," said Alzador. "The old relic is taking his sweet time leaving."

"Maybe the elevator is broken. Again," said Salweta.

"Yeah. Why do you think that anyone is bothering with him after all this time? I mean even with Alpha genes and his kick ass augmentation index, there's a limit to rejuv and Reeze is hitting the wall. It's not like he even fought in the war."

"He was Kain's Hand," she said. "And then he worked for The Lady Sinister. Lead the Witch Hunters. Got himself a fancy bloodname. He was somebody, once upon a time."

"Operative word 'was'. His strength, stamina, reflexes, all have taken a beating from that nasty bastard called Old Age. He's not much good to anyone now."

"I wouldn't say that," rasped Varidan Reeze as he pushed the muzzle of his pistol into the base of his skull. He pointed his left hand at Salweta, who had dropped the takeout and drawn her own gun. The former Internal Security overcommander was wearing a shadow cloak in the form of a black trenchcoat over casual street clothes. Grey hair shot through with dark streaks was cut short and his light brown skin showed wrinkles around the eyes and lips. He was taller than average and still in good shape, even without his augmentations. "Don't do anything stupid or your partner takes a ride on the Death Express."

She looked at him blankly. "I take it my slang is dated. I've got Devastator rounds loaded in Technitronic Max Gauss Express. There won't be anything left of his skull if I pull the trigger. Comprehend?"

"Do it and I'll light you up."

"Please. My shields come from Kain himself. You're gun will be dry before you overload them. And you'll be dead long before that. Why do they want me watched after all this time?"

"That's need to know."

"Are you willing to die to protect that secret? I don't think so."

"You won't kill us," Salweta said. "The Terrani will be on your ass for murder and you'll end up in a concrete box. Go home. Go live out whatever years have left. Maybe someplace with a nice beach."

"I always expected to die on my feet," said Reeze blandly. He paused for a moment. Silence. "Someone came back, didn't they?" Inhuman eyes, products of the finest technology (although now somewhat dated) processed heat patterns, eye movement, facial ticks, perspiration, and other indicators and correlated them with heartbeat and respiratory data gathered from the augmented hearing and scent traces from the implanted receptors. Internal wetware and hardware crunched the data.

"Yes, overwhelming likelihood. Directorate doesn't do much augmenting and training in biocontrol, does it?" They said nothing. "Don't bother. Your bodies tell the story. I was rebuilt and exhaustively trained to kill rogue vampires or Slaver Lords. What does the Directorate expect from you? Cracking a few heads at a union rally or spying on a reformist politician with his mistress? Maggots."

"You may think your hot shit Reeze, but you're just an old man, alone in this world. You talk tough now, but you passed on your chance to take sides. The only value you have is bait."

"Perhaps," said Reeze as he backed up. "Perhaps. I'll carry the consequences of not choosing sides for the rest of my life, however long that is. I had my reasons. I made the wrong one, but at least I didn't choose to serve those who were busy raping the corpse of the state."

"Grow up Don Quixote," Salweta said. "This is the real world. The glorious past was never that glorious and what is, is."

Reeze backed out the door and into the hall, before turning and darting away. Alzador let out a long sigh. "Christ. I thought he might shoot me. He reached for his jacket. "Call it in and let's go."

"Think we'll catch him?"

"Christ no. I don't even want to find him. But it will look better if we try."

[Ford Prefect]

The last lines were classic.

[Imperial Overlord]

The Spike
Shadowcatch
The Free Federation

In the square in front of the Security Directorate fortress, space tore open in a gush of freezing vapors. Rike stepped through the gap, wearing a shadowcloth trench coat over night blue leather. Hiis skin was now vibrant red and thin patches of ice coated a few parts of his clothes. He reached behind him and dragged Vorlar Kadril through.

"Let's get this over with dead man," said Rike.

"Gladly," said Vorlar, shivering. He had travelled between a few times and while it was faster than by ship it could be hazardous and was far less pleasant. He activated his coms implant and sent a message ahead of him. He then lead the mercenary necromancer through the check points and into the heart of The Spike.

Sensors and guards watched them enter the armoured tower and a second line waited inside. Each line of security sensors included shield generators and gun emplacements. Rike evaluated and then dismissed the measures. Vorlar lead him to a lift and touched controls that sent them to near the top of the fortress.

Rike followed the Directorate overcommander down a nice white and sterile corridor before stopping at a door near the end. He stepped through and Rike followed. Inside was a conference room and a dozen Directorate operatives, two-thirds of them human males, in the one piece soft armoured suits favored for field work.

"This is Rike," said Kadril. "Slayers' Guild." A few eyes narrowed at the mention of that and a few mouths twisted in brief sneers or grimaces of distaste. "He'll be assembling a team to advise and reinforce us." The last words left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

"When do we leave?" Rike asked.

"Leave?" asked captain Sardin, a stocky man with Eurasian features. "We're hear to get this guy, not run."

"He's long gone," said Rike. His demeanor made it clear that 'fucking moron' was an unspoken addition to that statement. "There are six hundred other worlds. Six fucking hundred and most of them have less extensive Directorate coverage. The logical move, the smart move, is to continue the work somewhere else other than one damn planet in the entire state where you are looking hard for him."

"Christ," said Sardin.

"A Christ kisser," said Rike. "This job gets better all the time."

Sardin rose from his seat. "You arrogant necroslave," he began.

"A Christian that talks like a Slaver," said Rike. "What a wonderful combination. Why don't you take a shot and I'll show you what lies on the other side of death? What do you have to lose? It's not like we're right about death, is it? A good Christian boy like you can expect the bliss of heaven, right?"

"Rike!" barked Kadril. "Enough! I will not tolerate your prejudices or your goading of my people."

"As you wish, dead man."

Haverton
Shaltae
The Free Federation


As usual, the weather on Shaltae was miserable. Rain fell from dark skies onto muddy streets, prefab buildings, or structures made of sheet metal and reshaped rock. The largest building was in the center of the makeshift town and it was surrounded by a crowd of thousands. The crowd wasn't happy.

Two dozen Directorate troops wearing hard shell plate over soft armour suits lead the way. Most of them were armed with compact beam guns as their primary weapons and all of them carried forearm mounted flechette launchers with disintegrating belt feeds to ammo containers on their back. The weight would be burdensome to unaugmented humans, but they Directorate troops all had the gene work common to Free Federation humans and additional biomech augments to make them superhuman killers.

Walking in their wake were three men wearing soft armour with the stylized shield emblem of the Security Directorate. The rain did not touch them, repelled by the layers of sorcerous shielding that gave them an order of magnitude greater protection than their more heavily armoured comrades. The leader was a tall male, hatchet faced and pale skinned from receiving Shaltae's feeble sunlight and spending time in doors. On his left was a woman who looked enough alike to be his sister. She was. Both wore the pentagram insignia of trained mage.

The man on the right was just as pale as the others, although he was several centimeters shorter than the woman, about Free Federation average in height. His features were softer and his eyes darted from side to side. A stylized Roman Letter "N" was on his collar flashes, marking him as an outcast practitioner of an art that was too useful to be abandoned. He was a necromancer, a wielder of The One Power with an affinity for the Dark Art, and a pariah because of it.

The lead trooper's voice boomed out. "All of you are under arrest for violations of the public order. You will stand down and surrender yourself for processing. Leaders will identify themselves and move for the front or it will go harder on all of you."

Shouts of defiance answered them and were then quickly followed by thrown bottles which smashed harmlessly on their armour. The Directorate operatives endured it stoically.

"This is going to be bad," said Varshen. The necromancer adjust his collar nervously. "Real bad.

Kalen Mollar looked over at the necromancer. "No shit." His sister met his gaze and nodded.

"We should-"

"Follow orders," finished Mollar. "We'll only need you if they keep being stupid. Now shut up and leave this to those with real training." The fear of the Lords of the Darkhold was bone deep in the Free Federation's elite. They would not permit the rise of a new cabal of necromancer-warlords to challenge their power, even if that meant they forfeited the services of such potent beings. No necromancer would receive anything beyond the most rudimentary, defence orientated combat training as long as their word held. And it did.

Mollar invoked sorcery to make his voice carry. "Your complaints about working conditions and corporate abuses are irrelevant. There are proper channels." Which were pretty much toothless and weighted heavily on the business side, but the wasn't going to argue the point. "You are in violation of public order. Stand down now. " He didn't bother adding to his threat. The Free Federation was a two party and single interest government and it did not tolerate violations in the status quo. The business of the government was business. If these stupid bastards thought that a show of numbers would change that, then a show of force would disabuse those on other worlds. A dog that stepped out of place got kicked.

The crowd responded with jeers. "Rape this," said Mollar. "Light them up. You're going to be busy Varshen." The Directorate troops shouldered their guns. The protesters at the front began to hedge away or move for the alleys. The beam guns opened up.

Intolerably bright blue-white beams flash vaporized water in tissues and blew large smoking holes in torsos or severed limbs. The Directorate troops had their weapons set to low power to minimilize the danger posed by stray shots or friendly fire. The mowed down the first three rows of protesters in a seconds.

Panic had set in and people began running and screaming. "Forward!" yelled Mollar. "Let them run, but burn down any resistance!" Scattered gun fire continued as the Directorate troops advanced. Mollar smiled fiercely. Some of the fallen would remember names or faces of the protest's leaders and, living or dead, he would be able to tear that from them and make arrests. He smiled fiercely and yellow-green lightning danced around his fingers. He was going to get a commendation for this, or possibly even a promotion. Life was good, at least for him.

[Imperial Overlord]

Super Dreadnought Sun Eater
Deep Space
Near Free Federation Space

On the dimly lit flag bridge of the second most powerful warship ever constructed the field commanders of the Exiles held a meeting under the gaze of their Imperator, their war leader. Celene Nightfire e'Kail e'Zerakis, The Lady of Battle, Daemonstraum's Bane, and The Hammer of Victory wore armour of Slaver hide and was wrapped in shadowcloth trench coat. Her red hair was pulled into a braid and shot through with spell trapped wire known as a witch's knot. She had the pale skin sometimes called a "starship tan" and merciless blue eyes.

An olive skinned woman walked into the room. Eyes turned to her. "The fools threatened the Guild to gain their cooperation."

Red light drenched her as Kane shifted his gaze to regard his successor as head of Internal Security. The maimed necromancer wore a shadowcloth cloak over rune reinforced adamantium plate armour, an impossible burden for the unaugmented. Red jeweled prothesises replaced his right arm and left eye. His short beard only partially hid four long gauge marks on the left side of his face. "Confirmation?" he said emotionlessly.

"The Guild has flooded all of its internal communication media with it."

"Reasoning we would have at least one tap or sympathizer with access to their more public communications," said Celene.

"Fools," said the Zarkos Elvindar woman not too much shorter than Celene. Savaya ith Kazasan was a dark eyed and beautiful in the traditional Zarkos Elvindar way. Her body was lithe and muscular, he hair long and dark, her skin was pale, her eyes large and almond shaped, and her ears came to a graceful point. She wore bladed armour of midnight blue plate inscribed with silver runes and set with deadly blades. She was the Prince-Heir to the ruling cabal of the greatest Zarkos Elvindar house and third wife of Incaradine. She had blooded her murder knives before she had reached her majority and usurped her father's place as her grandfather's heir. "To alienate the Guild in such a way. They have grown sloppy."

"As anticipated," said Kain. "The total corruption of the political process has lead to entrenched positions and the belief of being completely unaccountable for actions. Hubris will continue to impair their decision making abilities."

"Yes, yes," said Savaya. "They're fools. What's our next move?"

A dark skinned woman, significantly shorter than Savaya, with a white streak in her black hair snickered. The Zarkos Elvindar warlord shot her a dirty look. The woman smiled back in a somewhat suggestive manner.

Celene smiled at the exchange. "Finished?" she asked her in-laws. "Good." She showed white teeth. "Now is the time to really start things moving, pushing them in the directions we want them to go. They need to feel fear. We unleash the wolf."

New York City
Terra
United States of America

Varidan Reeze scanned the underground club. It was playing music he didn't care for at far too high a volume and had lighting that involved far too many multicoloured lasers. People in leather and metallic fabrics were dancing, scoring drinks, or doing a variety of controlled or outright illegal drugs in plain view. It was the fifth such establishment he had been to this evening.

This time he found what he was looking for. A man with a body temperature far too low was dancing on the dance floor with a purple haired girl. The leather pants and vest he was wearing would look better on someone who wasn't quite so skinny. Reeze pushed his way through the crowd.

The vampire made him, an easy thing to do since he wasn't dressed to fit in, and scowled. Reeze smiled back and moved forward. The vampire wasn't scared, of course. Why would someone altered by the retrovirus fear a human in close quarters? The vampire kept dancing with the girl, but kept an eye on him.

Reeze reached them on the dance floor. He grabbed the girl's shoulder and whispered into her ear. "NYPD. Scram." The girl shot him a nasty look with golden eyes before moving a way. The vamp scowled at him. "We need to talk," said Reeze.

"Fuck you."

"There's a lot of ways we can do this. A lot of ways you can come out ahead, really far ahead. Is that worth fucking up for a piece of fluff?"

The vampire glowered but consented to joining Reeze at a table on the periphery of the club. "What do you want?"

"A meeting with the Karsteins. Covert."

"And what's in it for me?"

"My money and the gratitude of the most powerful vampire cabal on earth."

"How can you promise that?"

"I have some idea of how they'll react to what I tell them. Their connections to this city are old. They keep a lower profile, but I know that they'll keep tabs on every vamp and have lines of communication open. It's an easy score and a highly profitable one."

"You have an heat on you?"

"None," Reeze lied. Well, he was clean as far as the U.S. was concerned, but it appeared the Directorate wanted close tabs kept on his ass. "And I'd like it to stay that way."

"You said money?"

"Ten K."

"Alright. I'll need to be able to contact you."

"I'll be here every night."

"That's fucking paranoid."

"Problem?"

"No."

"Then I'll be here tomorrow."

[Ford Prefect]

There's something about this story, with it's strangely-arcane feel, that makes it very compelling. That and the political intrigues, especially those including the guild.

[Imperial Overlord]

Thank you Ford.

[Imperial Overlord]

Arack City
Silvergrass
Former Nazarian Domain
The Free Federation

Junas Nalvado knelt on the cold stone floor of the church and bowed his head. He offered up a silent prayer to God, beseeching him for the wisdom to live righteously. He bowed his head to the cold flagstones. There was no answer, no guidance. There never was.

He looked up at the huge crucifix hanging above the altar. The image of Jesus Christ looked back down, his eyes filled with love and mercy despite the agony of his Crucifixion. He took strength in that, comfort as well. God had given him wealth, power, and an able mind. He should be able to use those on his own to find the correct path, without further favors from God.

Even for a man of his wealth and power, things were not easy. He could not support any politician he chose, because the Liberals and Conservatives held the reigns of power and would punish anyone bold enough to support a third party candidate, especially one who might be a reformer. One could attempt to resist the state and get crushed, or one could go with the corruption and the artfully rigged laws and get rich. To prosper and be righteous was not impossible, but it involved compromise. Compromise he knew he would have to answer for one day.

Footsteps echoed off the flagstones behind him. He rose up, irritated. His bodyguards knew better than to interrupt him while praying. And it could be no other, for he had exclusive use of the church at this hour. The church survived entirely on his money and he asked the priests for only a few comparatively minor privileges. He was not pleased that someone had sought him out at this time.

"Be at peace, friend," said the intruder. He was a tall, pale man with dark eyes and hair. He wore a long and heavy black coat. There was a certain leanness to his face that could not quite be considered gaunt.

"You should not be here," Junas replied.

"I have permission, like you." Junas's eyes flickered to his bodyguards, still standing sentinel at the church's doors. "While yours derives from your status as patron of this church, mine comes from my status in the hierarchy."

"You are a priest?"

"Of sorts," the man replied. "I have come some way to meet you."

The businessman looked at him warily. The man should not have passed his guards without them alerting him. Who was he really?

"Does this church touch you?" the man asked. "A dark place, lit by a thousand candles and what light that filters through stained glass, presided over by an icon of torture?"

"Who are you?" Junas asked. "You're no priest. I doubt that you're even a Christian?"

"In all the ways that matter I am a priest," the man replied, "although you are quite correct that I am not a Christian. Meeting you here was the most expedient course, so I took it."

"What then do you want? Not my life, you could have already have taken it. Money?"

"Answers to a few questions. And then I will answer yours."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Yes. I will do you no harm here. If you choose not to answer I will simply leave. And you will never know who I am or why I am here."

"Ask then."

"Why are you a Christian?"

"Because I believe."

"Really? Is it not because your ancestors decided to distance themselves from their accursed Nazarian blood by adopting the religion of those who attempted to annihilate them? Was it not a purely pragmatic move, a desire for better status and living conditions, a signal to the powers that be your ancestors had rejected all the loyalties of the past? Are you not simply a product of being raised that way?"

"No, I believe."

"You believe, despite the overwhelming scientific evidence that your holy book, the literal word of your God, is riddled with untruths and inaccuracies. Despite the facts that some of the stories within are inaccurate in almost every detail, according to a mountain of evidence? Despite the fact that the Christian beliefs about the afterlife were long ago proven false by necromancers? You still believe?"

"I believe."

"Why? Do you hear his voice? Does he ever answer you?"

"I choose to believe."

"I see. And do you choose to do what is right?"

"I try, Lord knows that I don't always succeed."

"And what is right about the nation you live in?"

"Not enough."

"That ends my questions. I will answer yours."

"Who are you?"

"My name would have no meaning to you. I speak with His Voice."

"You mean God?"

"No."

"What do you want from me?"

"For you to do the right thing. For you to know that when the accounting comes it will not come for those who have abandoned the truth, but for those who have sided with the oppressors. For you to spread the word of what you have learned today."

Something nudged at the edge of Junas's brain, something about the Voice. "You serve Nalhen," he said softly.

"When he returns in his wrath it will be with Eyes of Fire and a Thousand Curses for his enemies."

"Nagazar," he whispered. An elite and fanatical sub sect of the Nazarian military, Nalhen's personal soldiers, their names derived from ancient legends. At their core were the warships of the Eyes of Fire and a thousand warrior sorcerers, each one bearing the name and warmasked marked with the glyph of a lethal curse. A thousand sorcerers, lead by one of their number who spoke with Nalhen's authority and deadly will. One whose whole life and identity were subsumed to his role. Nalhen's Voice.

Junas took a step back, trembling.

"This all is a lie. This is man, crawling in the dust in his ignorance and wishing that their was some force he could appeal to and so change his destiny. This is man, knowing that life is full of injustice, hoping that there is some force that can make justice. This is man, fearing his end, and wishing for paradise instead and a torture chamber for his enemy. New Jerusalem was ground to dust not for being Christians, but for seeking the death of all Nazarians and for aiding the Slaver Lords. My lord will permit you your religion, as has always been done. He cares not what opiate you sup in your weakness. It is beneath him. The welfare of his people and the death of his enemies are his concerns. The final days are almost at hand."

With that The Voice of Nalhen walked down the nave, past the frozen bodyguards, and out of the doors of the church. Junas watched him go and then turned back to the altar and began to pray.

[LadyTevar]

Wow. Just... wow.

[Ford Prefect]

I'll say.

[Imperial Overlord]

New York City
Terra
United States of America

Varidan Reeze, once Kain's Hand, watched as the female vampire skirted the crowd and headed toward him. She was of average height and slight of build, but with vampires that was always deceptive. She had shoulder length black hair and was beautiful, either by inheritance, surgery, or application of her shape shifting abilities. His hand drifted down so it brushed his shadowcloak, ready to draw forth his death whip from its extra-dimensional space if he needed it.

Once he wouldn't have feared the approach of a strange vampire, willing to trust his skills and the capabilities of his augmented body against any being in close quarters. It would have to his advantage to have her close, but that time was five hundred years in the past. His skills remained as sharp as ever, but time had taken its toll on his flesh.

She sat down at his table. She was wearing a black leather jacket, t-shirt, and jeans. "You are Witch Hunter Overcommander Varidan Reeze, Kain's Hand, Fire Walker."

"Yes," he said. His primary heart beat faster, in defiance of his will. He damped it down. If she was on the ball, she would have surely have noticed. "I wasn't expecting you."

"But we were expecting you. We paid off your intermediary. He will have the good sense to lay low and in any event he knows nothing that can harm us now."

"So it's true."

"Yes."

"Who was it?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. But they are coming back. All of them."

"And the house and clan?"

"We yearn to wear our true names with pride and to be reunited with our kin. It was our blood who first formulated the laws that Zerakis brought to the Free Federation. Only part of our family lived in the Free Federation, but it was a thing of our blood nonetheless and its usurpers are not loved by us. The eldest awaken from their long sleep. We go to war."

He nodded. "Count me in."

Plaza of the Fallen
Caltethan City
Nahasses
The Free Federation

A black rent was torn in the night air, just in front of the statue of the Lord and the Lady. Cold vapor gushed out, followed by a man wearing a uniform of black leather and a violet lined cloak. He was tall and muscular with medium brown hair and glimmering eyes the same colour as his cloak lining. Silver glinted on his spell forged armour of Slaver hide, talismans that anchored his shields and augmented his sensor net. A silver sword with a meter long blade was in his right hand.

He turned and regarded the statue for a moment. The lords of Darkhold that had died honourably in battle against the Slaver Lords had not been subject to the vilification that their brethren who had fought on the losing side of the civil war had been subjected to. Even five hundred years later, hatred of the Slaver Lords was almost holy in Free Federation space and those who died fighting them were still martyrs. A campaign of quiet neglect and the elevation of more suitable heroes had happened in stead, but that still left various icons and statues of fallen necromancers scattered throughout Free Federation Space.

The statues were so weathered that one could barely see the scar running down the right side of Kail's face, from his forehead almost to his lips. He was wearing the trench coat that he had helped popularize during his life and seemed to be striding relentlessly forward, despite a slump on his shoulders that indicated weariness. Celene had an arm wrapped around her husband and was helping support him while she confronted the world with a grim expression and her famous blade Icefire in her left hand. The magelord's gaze lingered for a moment and then he charged the building at the opposite side of the square.

Exterior sensors had already registered the dimensional breach, an event that was impossible any closer to the building itself. Cameras were comparing the warrior's face and build to an extensive database. They made a match. Weapon ports opened beam cannons unleashed eye searing beams of blue-white hell.

The ugly block that housed the planetary headquarters of the Security Directorate was a little over a kilometer away. Daemonwulf launched himself through the air on a pulse of sorcery. It took him just over two seconds to clear the distance. The sonic boom broke every window in the plaza.

Beam cannons that could tear open assault flier struck his shields on the way in, but he paid them no mind. His impact against the security doors turned them into deadly shrapnel that ripped through the almost deserted entry way. His remaining momentum carried Daemonwulf through the security scanners as he applied a counter force that cut his velocity and deposited him on the floor just in front of the main desk.

Four troopers in hard armour opened up with beam rifles as concealing panels rolled back and autoguns were deployed. A Ring of emerald light surrounded the Daemonwulf's left hand as he ruptured the Directorate troopers' internal organs. He then pointed at the autoguns and released blasts of violet energy that obliterated most of the walls. Debris bounced off his shields, but otherwise did not trouble him.

A dark skinned woman Directorate soft armour cowered behind the main desk. The sorcerer pulled her up with chords of woven power. She trembled. "Open your mind to me and live. Resist and die."

He pushed through rudimentary walls in her brain to find what he wanted to know about the lay out of the building. He dropped her. "You had better run," he said as he blew a hole in the ceiling and rose up through it.

He smashed his way through five floor before he reached his destination. Alarm klaxons were blaring, putting everyone at high alert but there was no one here who could challenge him, not that he would be staying long. He emerged through the floor of a sealed room with armourplex walls where four cylindrical generators fed a single egg shaped device about two meters on its long side. A cyan force beam blew the D-lock to fragments. He then blew a hole in the ceiling above him and rose up another three stories into the middle of the detention levels. Sensors impotently tracked his every move.

The halls were white and antiseptic, the doors were massive and solid metal. His sword cut through them with ease. Frightened humans, sithi, and kordassi stumbled into the light. It took him a little more than two minutes to free all thirteen prisoners held here.

"I am Daemonwulf," he said. "I am here to rescue you." He tore open a rift in space. Cold mist gushed forth. "Leave or stay as you choose, but choose quickly." All but one elected to pile through the rift. Daemonwulf eyed the last one who was squinting back. Not political, although housed with them, the arch-mage decided. Probably someone very, very dangerous who knows his chances are better with the Directorate. He smiled, showing teeth and then stepped through the rift with his charges. Their sorcerers could try to pursue him in the realm beyond, but he didn't think he and his pack would get that lucky.

[LadyTevar]

That was a very rapid and nasty jailbreak, my friend.

he blew a hole in the ceiling and rose up through hit.

I do this trick all the time, that 'h' that should have been on the end of another word hitting the next.

[Imperial Overlord]

That was a very rapid and nasty jailbreak, my friend.

Then you'll appreciate other people commenting about his restrain.

[LadyTevar]

That was a very rapid and nasty jailbreak, my friend.

Then you'll appreciate other people commenting about his restrain.

You mean Restraint?
You mean by killing only those who were actively resisting him? Or that he didn't kill the one that he mind-raped for the information?

[Imperial Overlord]

You mean by killing only those who were actively resisting him? Or that he didn't kill the one that he mind-raped for the information?

That there was anyone still alive in the building and it was still standing.

[LadyTevar]

You mean by killing only those who were actively resisting him? Or that he didn't kill the one that he mind-raped for the information?

That there was anyone still alive in the building and it was still standing.

*snicker* So he was feeling lazy that day.