StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Was Vader the only one surprised by Jacen's last name? I think you can explain that part away by having it be a common surname on Corellia.

That said, great work!

Dominus wrote:The Republica and Riker... well, I never quite expected you to kill off one of the main characters from Star Trek, seeing as how most of them have made it through more or less intact thus far. And if I wasn't expecting Riker's death, the Republica's own demise came as a complete surprise. But this continues a trend that I really like -- a willingness to sacrifice one's main characters and settings. Doesn't make it any less sad in the end, though.

Thanks. I've tried to create a kind of uncertain, perilous atmosphere, especially this late in the story. I always enjoy fiction more when the fate of the main characters is in actual doubt, and I'm glad that you feel the same way.

Battlehymn Republic wrote:Was Vader the only one surprised by Jacen's last name? I think you can explain that part away by having it be a common surname on Corellia.

Canonically, Han Solo's relationship with his extended family is extremely unsteady, and I think its possible that he wouldn't think it too odd if he crossed paths with some kid he had never heard of before who shared some distant familial connection. I had planned on noting something to that effect later on, but Han has been rather in the background of late. Others have noted the similarity (I believe I've mentioned it at least once) but its been nothing more than a passing curiosity, just like the certain notational kinship shared by Commander Skywalker and an old, "deceased" war hero.

And thanks for your encouraging comments as always, everyone. I hope I can continue to live up to them.

This has to be one of the better crossovers I've read so far.

I was wondering when you were going to destroy the Republica.

Chapter Sixty One

The Victory I-class Star Destroyer moved slowly, seamlessly through space, it’s gradually curving course perfectly synchronized with the yellow globe that revolved a few hundred kilometers below. Carefully slotted into a geosynchronous orbit, the warship was both frozen and moving; although it hurtled through the void along with its vast counterpart, to an observer the surface far below, it was a fixed point, another star in the nighttime sky. And just as it could be watched by planet bound searcher or instrument, the nine hundred meter wedge of durasteel plating and machinery kept the world under a probing eye. Dozens of sensors and hundreds of men watched the planetary surface intently, scanning every square meter and tagging everything that moved for further observation and analysis.

Thermal imagers and tri-light scopes were not the only devices trained on the world. Nearly one hundred weapons emplacements dotted the ship’s broad, gray hull, and of them, only a few fixed missile tubes and turrets obstructed by the vessel’s own bulk were not oriented towards the distant, rolling dunes and rocky plains. A shuttle-sized turbolaser mounted high on the Victory’s starboard side, which was inclined steeply towards the curvature of the world, turned a few degrees on its mount, raised its primary firing shaft a meter, and then punched back, unleashing a lance of emerald light. The glistening beam was swiftly swallowed by the reflected light of the globe, and when the bolt fell expertly on its sighted target a moment later, the ruinous explosion was only perceptible by the beings that had designated the target.

As the destroyer continued on its appointed course, discharging another packet or two of supercharge particulate and energy every few minutes, it found itself in increasingly crowded space. Battle blasted hulks, must of them rendered into fragments smaller than a scout fighter, were coalescing slowly under the influence of the nearby planet’s gravitational pull. No longer possessing any motive force of their own, the bits of debris collected by the billion, forming loose bands that could stretch from one horizon to the other. In time, the orbital cloud would drift too close to its host, and atmospheric friction would ignite each particle. A storm of shooting stars would light up the sky, a modicum of beauty, paid for dearly in blood.

The ship’s crew paid the cloud little mind. A few guns turned to trace some of the larger pieces of debris, and one or two of them atomized several particularly obtrusive fragments, but the vessel’s navigators made no effort to avoid the rest. The ship’s skin-tight deflector shields were more than capable of shrugging off the tiny, relatively-slow moving scrap, and its captain was too focused on his current assignment to worry about such a trivial matter. A minute into the drifting field, any sensors that had been taken off the planet were returned, and the wreckage was forgotten.

As the pointed prow of the warship passed a kilometer above what had once been part of a massive holographic communications array, something within the derelict tangle of metal winked to life. A drum of muted violet just over two meters long, the object was unimpressive, save for the fact that it lacked the intense heat scoring that distorted and discolored most of the flotsam around it. Attached to a flattened piece of bulkhead twice its size by several of the long, pointed protuberances that covered it at regular intervals, the blunt-ended cylinder seemed to be equally dead, save for a tiny, reddish light on a control panel at its midsection that had just flashed on.

The Victory continued on deeper into the debris field, and as it moved past, other devices lit up. There were only a few at first, but as their lone lights began to glimmer on and off, other objects, not so close, also activated. Veiled in the thickest regions of wreckage, larger machines also cast out subtle signals of recognition. Soon, the massive wedge was completely surrounded by the things, dozens of them. Hundreds.

Then, in unison, they began to move. Detaching electromagnetic clamps and pushing past smaller bits of dross, minute drives mounted on each tip of the elongated devices flared, and the hidden multitude converged. Passive energy sensors attached to the Imperial warships hull detected minor fluctuations and radiation spikes; automated computer filters discounted them as background static. Proximity detectors picked up the first group of cylinders as the slowly approached the hull; their small, non-threatening size noted, attendant crewers quickly dismissed them. An outstretched sensing spike on one scraped the invisible energy barrier around the ship, powered just enough to ward off any wayward debris; the contact didn’t trigger the slightest of fluctuation.

The voluminous cloud of supercharged plasma that the first mine expelled as it cracked open caused a ripple of transparent blue to flow across the ventral hull forty meters in every direction. Twenty more explosives impacted and detonated in the next few seconds, illuminating patches on every side and surface of the vessel. Before the ship’s crew could do more than look up from their displays in confusion, a hundred more mines impacted the shielded mass, enveloping it in plasma residue and spastic waves of coherent energy. Unprepared for the onslaught, the defensive barrier began to fail.

Turbolasers quieted immediately, and technical crews desperately attempted to reroute all available power to the besieged deflector emitters. Already on the verge of shutdown, the main generator choked on the new influx of energy, faltered momentarily, and then sputtered off as the continuing bombardment disrupted each reparatory countermeasure and failsafe. Ancillary deflector systems scattered across the hull came to life a moment later, but the brief lapse had been long enough to allow several of the larger bombs to impact the ship unhindered. The Victory’s pristine plating was now pocked by several gapping chasms, and still the onslaught did not let up.

Onboard the warship’s bridge, the Imperial captain had just dispatched an urgent and confused distress signal, and was barking commands to the chiefs of his repair crews when one of the mightiest columns slammed into the base of his command tower. Lurching forward to avoid an ungraceful tumble back into a crowded crew pit, the man steadied himself on the edge of a forward diagnostic computer and happened to look out the main observation viewport as a blue wave of contained plasma washed over the bridge’s emergency energy screen. The searing discharge dissipated quickly, and so did the visible tint of the agitated shielding, revealing the scene around his vessel for a moment before another mine detonation obscured his view once more.

The captain called for a tactical display of the space surrounding the vessel, and in a few moments a subordinate directed him to a waiting terminal. The tiny, motile explosives were still dashing themselves upon his hull, but their numbers, at least of those that the ship’s sensors had identified, were waning. They, however, were no longer the only contacts shown.

Weaving through the surrounding debris field in tight formation, four full wings of Seraph starfighters bore down upon the wounded vessel. The fliers, each more than four times the size of an Imperial TIE, deftly juked past the remaining mines, and then reformed into a long column several ships wide that proceeded to angle straight at the destroyer’s central mass. Point defense guns and blasts from still-detonating booby traps shattered several of the vessels, but the rest moved even closer, racing up the ship’s sloping, pyramidal face with disarming speed. When they were within a hundred meters of the prominent command tower, they jerked upwards suddenly, and pulse lasers mounted within the forward teardrop tip of each stuttered, tracing lines of fire to the exposed bridge platform. Other plied the barrier with side-mounted plasma projectors, unleashed only meters from their target as the ships raced past.

The first wing found the deflectors still in place, as did the second. Oblivious to the simultaneous attack, the last of the mines detonated in front of the command deck, disintegrating or diverting much of the third wave before it could unleash its payload. The final formation, however, found the bridge exposed at last, undone by the suicidal attack. They did not hesitate, and rejoined their rapidly retreating comrades only after the out-thrust bridge cavity was nothing more than a molten cavern.

From the command platform of the flagship Sacrosanct, Supreme Commander Teno ‘Falanamee watched a holographic representation of the Imperial destroyer burn in space as atmosphere from unsealed compartments throughout its interior was blown towards hull breaches and fanned corrosive, artificial flames. The ship was not wholly dead; the sheer size of the vessel had prevented the core from being breached, and internal compartmentalization meant that much of its crew was probably still alive. Still, it was decapitated and badly lacerated, effectively removed from any further fighting. In a war against technology that surpassed even the works of the gods, it was a rare accomplishment.

A murmur of celebration escaped the split lips of the Sangheili officers assembled around ‘Falanamee, but their reaction was subdued, unusually so considering the overwhelming success of the stratagem. Nevertheless, he was unsurprised. A small, relatively bloodless victory could not make up for a war that had seen so many of their kind perish futilely.

The Supreme Commander had been greatly gratified by the composition of the officer corps of his new command. Following his near-disastrous failure with Admiral Wattinree, ‘Falanamee had feared that those under his command would get wind of their commander’s disfavor and seek to undermine him, perhaps in revenge for their old executive’s removal. Instead, the crew and the ship master under his command had been surprisingly quick to accept him, and had shown both loyalty and skill over the course of several engagements. What as more, most seemed to be intelligent, inquisitive officers, elevated for their skill in combat instead of their quickness to genuflect before the Prophets. In an empire that valued religious zeal and subservience as much as martial prowess, such a crew was as uncommon as the victory they had just won.

“A human support vessel destroyed, at the cost of only nine Seraphs,” ‘Falanamee commented, turning to the gold-armored Sangheili who stood in waiting beside him. “Hiding those mines within the wreckage of our own vessels was a rather… unorthodox maneuver, and unexpected enough to catch our target completely unawares. An impressive show of ingenuity, ship master.”

Ship Master Hewa ‘Adralee nodded shortly. “Thank you, Excellency. When we were alerted that the invaders intended to take Radiant Sanctum, I realized that their previous success in this system could be used against them. The Holy Armada has done little but face them in honorable, open combat since their arrival, and I suspected they would not anticipate such a tactic for us.”

“You do not consider this honorable combat?” ‘Falanamee asked.

‘Adralee considered for a moment, and then looked his commander squarely in the eyes. “It is true, deploying the mine field was a treacherous maneuver, and the human warship was slain with only minimal confrontation with our soldiers. Nevertheless, thousands of warriors and many of your vessels that might well have been destroyed in open combat still move and hold the will to fight. Their service in the conflict yet to come will be honorable enough.”

The Supreme Commander returned his subordinate’s gaze in silence, and then turned back to the huge holographic projection that dominated the center of the Sacrosanct’s overbridge. Internally, however, the warrior’s response had given him nearly as much satisfaction as the Victory’s destruction. ‘Adralee was young for a position as prestigious as the one he held, and had only directed a single naval skirmish before the outbreak of the Imperial invasion. Nevertheless, he displayed both sound tactical sense and a mind for strategy that seemed largely uncluttered by the various dictums of orthodoxy that often interfered with the creative growth of military minds within the Covenant. He was as pious as the next servant of the Prophets, of course, but there was more to the officer as well: the word of the gods colored his life, but beneath that, he was a solider first and foremost. A true Sangheili.

It was the right and privilege of one of his rank to take direct command of any vessel upon which he raised his flag, but ‘Falanamee was content to allow ‘Adralee to continue conducting his ship. That was fortunate, because the Imperial destroyer was not the only enemy ship that required his attention.

The reformed Fleet of Particular Justice was positioned in the shadow of Caad, one of the planet Radiant Sanctum’s two small moons. Tentatively, the Supreme Commander’s force was supposed to be in reserve and under a communication blackout, but in addition to orchestrating the Sacrosanct’s trap, situated in a narrow orbital band just above the world’s equator, he had taken the liberty of tapping into the planet’s satellite network, and was monitoring the conflict that was unfolding on the planet’s day side.

A day before, the combined fleet of Righteous Purpose under Imperial Admiral Wattinree had been dispatched in full to the planet. The fact that the system was involved in the conflict at all was a sign that things were proceeding poorly for the Covenant; although still positioned on in the outer reaches of the holy empire, it was far enough from UNSC space to have never even seen a full fleet of warships in the last half century. Its dry surface of sandy desert and rocky plains was dotted with cities and large settlements, most of them completely lacking any major military installations. In ages past, the world had been colonized after a few worn Forerunner monoliths had been uncover beneath its equatorial dunescape, and even now it hosted a sizeable population of minor Prophets. It was truly Covenant home soil, and now it was under threat.

Radiant Sanctum lacked any real strategic value, but the Galactic Empire had nevertheless decided to add it to their growing litany of conquered and devastated worlds. The planet’s meager defensive fleet had managed to drive off the initial expeditionary force at heavy cost, and ground forces had captured one of the intelligence-gathering automatons dispatched to the surface during the fighting. Huragok engineers had been able to isolate its memory core, and upon analysis, an AI had determined that there was a high likelihood that the Empire would return in force. Alerted of this, the High Prophets had instructed Wattinree to defend the planet at any cost, although they had not explained, at least to ‘Falanamee’s knowledge, why Radiant Sanctum was vital enough to risk compromising half of the fringeward defensive core.

The AI’s warning, at least, had been warranted. Two standard units before, four Imperial star destroyers, along with a dozen escort ships, had emerged on the planet’s lit side, swiftly destroying the handful of satellites, fueling stations, and transports that had been unlucky enough to fall within easy range of their turbolasers. They had then set up a blockade over several of the world’s largest population centers, and began to send their own large, armored transports down the gravity well. Before Wattinree was able to react, there were Imperial troops on three of the planet’s continents, with ships like the decapitated Victory burning them a path through waiting Covenant legions and weapons emplacements.

The Admiral had moved quickly to bring his force, positioned largely on the other side of the planet, to bear on the intruders, despite their vast, proven superiority. He split the combined fleet into two main halves, and dispatched each to engage the Imperials from the planet’s polar regions, hoping to lure the humans out of their formation. The Fleet of Particular Justice had been left in reserve, and ‘Falanamee had not protested. Indeed, he had not spoken to Wattinree more than was absolutely required since their meeting. Even in his projected visage, ‘Falanamee could sense the warrior’s unmitigated disgust for him, and he knew better than to tempt that distain a second time.

And so, the Sangheili and his ship masters had been forced to wait and watch as local space filled with the burning remains of their comrades. The combined fleet had successfully split the star destroyers and their escorts into two groups and completely enveloped both, as Wattinree had planned, but the Imperial technological advantage was simply too great to counteract. Aside from their loss in the mine field, the Imperial commander had only sustained two significant casualties, a Nebulon-B frigate that had succumbed to sheer, suicidal volume of fire from the northern wing, and an Acclamator assault ship that had been in the process of landing and disgorging its troops when a combined ground and orbital attack had managed to ground it. The thousands of Seraph fightercraft arrayed against the star destroyer’s attendant TIE squadrons had been more successful, but the fleet’s heavy hitters were still more or less untouched.

Covenant losses, of course, had been catastrophic.

Unable to watch Wattinree sacrifice cruiser after cruiser in useless flanking maneuvers and kamikaze runs, ‘Falanamee turned his attention to the displays that were tasked with the campaign on the planet below. The Empire had rarely engaged in large-scale ground combat, opting instead to slag targets of importance from orbit, but from the scattered reports that the Supreme Commander had heard, and his limited personal experience with the Imperial Stormtrooper Corps, he was not hopeful.

The legions tasked with defending the planetary capital and its other major cities fought with admirable ferocity and tenacity. Sheer weight of numbers and suicidal focus had enabled the planet’s defenders to hold their ground on several battlefields, particularly where orbital support was absent. Imperial foot soldiers, especially those who had advanced into urban theaters, were having a difficult time routing their zealous antagonists, but on the open plains and in the skies, Imperial technological preeminence was obvious once more. ‘Falanamee watched as a towering, quadruped war machine shrugged off the plasma artillery of a column of Wraith tanks and Scarab command walkers. Elsewhere, TIE fighters harried disintegrating squadrons of Banshee support fliers and shot down Covenant troop carriers in droves.

“Show me Pale Throne.”

One of the command officers linked with an automated observation drone in orbit around the planet, and within a few seconds, a hologram representing a sprawling metropolis resolved before the Supreme Commander. The world’s capital, a vast grid of ornate temples and monuments surrounded by several rings of crowded laborer domiciles and distribution facilities, was at the center of the battle; the larger concentration of Imperial warships hung heavily over the city, and thousands of Imperial infantry and armor were advancing through its outskirts. The area was also the command center of Covenant military operations in the system, meaning that the human battalions had to fight their way through a network of entrenched protectors and defensive positions, but the invaders were nevertheless slowly progressing towards the heart of the capital.

“It is odd that they have not abandoned their attempt there,” ‘Adralee said. “These humans have had to shed little blood for their gains since their arrival, and have often distained the opportunities for equal, honorable ground combat our warriors have offered. Why should their conquest of this world be any different?”

“A valid question,” ‘Falanamee replied. “Have you also noticed the behavior of their fleet? The Admiral has given them several opportunities to bypass his forward phalanx and target his command ships directly, but none of the vessels have broken from their positions in orbit above Pale Throne and Attendant 04, the resource transport hub on the southern continent. They could finish this contest swiftly with a more aggressive posture, and yet they remain fixed.”

‘Adralee peered at the planetary diagram above them carefully. “Yes. Yes, I see, Excellency.” He moved closer to the representation and gestured towards a particular section of the battle perimeter, which obediently magnified and centered itself before him. It displayed the pair of star destroyers and handful of support cruisers arrayed above the capital, completely enveloped by a bubble of enormous Covenant starships. “And look here. The blade-ships are oriented with its primary weapons directed towards the planet’s surface, not Imperial Admiral Wattinree’s host. They seem to be relying upon the lighter craft to engage our vessels.”

‘Falanamee nodded slowly, cursing himself silently for not noticing the abnormal configuration before. “The human warships are perfectly positioned to destroy any target in the capital, and still they rely upon their soldiers.”

A sudden thought hit him, and he turned to white-armored sub-commander. “Where have the human vessels been concentrating their fire upon Radiant Sanctum’s surface?”

The officer consulted briefly with his instruments and fellow controllers. “Excellency, most of their fire seems to be aimed at aircraft and launching space vessels.”

“Not on troop concentrations?” ‘Falanamee asked.

“Several legions of infantry have reported suffering heavy casualties to orbital fire, Excellency, and a Wraith division to the North of Pale Throne was destroyed a short while ago, but most of their weapons have focused on aerial targets, especially heavier transports. Their fightercraft also seems more focused on flighted targets than our warriors. The fleet has monitored several reports of fleeing transport vessels being forced to ground by human fire.”

“Forced to ground?” ‘Adralee interjected. “Not destroyed?”

“Yes, Ship Master. At least one unarmed currier vessel that took flight from Pale Throne was damaged and forced to land within occupied territory. Reports from the surface are increasingly scattered, however, and I was unable to confirm the fate of its crew.”

Why would they be attempting to take fleeing crews and civilians alive? The puzzle’s solution was self-evident: they wanted something, or someone, on the world alive and intact. The realization did little to clarify the situation, however. What would the Empire possibly want, especially on such a militarily inconsequential world? What would compel them to expend men and material so unnecessarily? Had their exploratory probes discovered something important nestled amidst the sandy dunes?

‘Falanamee walked swiftly across the overbridge’s command platform to a column of smoothly-sculpted metal and placed a large hand on its rounded cap. The cool surface hummed softly, and then began to warm. Light fixtures studding its sides flared with azure light, and a hazy, translucent form manifested itself before the Supreme Commander’s eyes.

Copied ritualistically a thousand times over from the first years of the Covenant’s existence, the Maintainers, or Oracles, within the nerve center of every major starship and installation were ancient artificial intelligences, often as inscrutable and enigmatic as the Forerunner on whose technology the program was based. Compounded point errors and minute copying mistakes over the millennia had robbed the intellects of many of their interactive properties, from conversational subroutines to personal avatars; the projected form that floated before the Sangheili appeared to be more a muted mass of tiny, lambent insects than anything meaningful, even if the hint of a face pinched its surface from time to time. Nevertheless, this particular AI was at least understandable, if cold and terse, and held an indispensable wealth of information at the tips of its immaterial tendrils.

“Maintainer.”

The flickering mass bubbled, and then a cold, hollow voice that seemed to come from the sloping dome above began to drawl. “Speak, Sangheili.”

“What importance does the planet Radiant Sanctum hold?”

“It is a world of the gods. The relics of the ancients have been found upon its surface, and by them, it is a holy place.”

“Nothing else?” ‘Falanamee pressed. “It has no other value?”

“There is nothing of greater value than the vestiges of the Forerunners.”

‘Falanamee growled, but decided upon a different tact. “Does Radiant Sanctum currently bear any thing or individual that an enemy of the Covenant might deem of significance?”

The mind paused for a moment. “Radiant Sanctum is of negligible military consequence.”

“Logistical importance, then. Economic. Political.”

“The world hosts three transportation and distribution hubs that coordinate the shipment of foodstuffs, raw material, and laborers for sixteen other planets in its sector. Six major agricultural complexes are located on its surface, which supply the planet and three adjacent colonial systems. The largest moon of the outer-system planet Arc contains a vanadium ore extractor, which feeds directly into distribution hub Attendant 04. The Deepening Cloister, located within planetary capital Pale Throne, contains the highest concentration of temples and Prophet sanctums in the sector. An automated interstellar positioning beacon…”

‘Falanamee stopped the intellect’s passionless droning. “Enough. Tell me more of the Deepening Cloister.”

“The Deepening Cloister is a complex of fifty eight religious structures commissioned with Radiant Sanctum’s colonization and formal consecration during the Eighth Age of Conversion. In addition to housing the Chambers of Edict for the planet, system, and local sector, the compound contains several dozen residences, retreats, temples, convocation halls, and monuments constructed specifically for the usage of Prophets tending or traveling through its region of the Holy Empire. Several High Councilors and adjuncts are known to the Hierarchs maintain asylums within the Deepening Cloister for retreat and communion while High Charity is positioned away from the galactic core.”

The AI’s drawl suddenly brought to mind for ‘Falanamee a bit of trivia that he had nearly forgotten between his recent confrontation and the ongoing struggle with the Galactic Empire. Before the Supreme Commander had broached his heretical knowledge to Wattinree, while the two had been discussing defensive strategies, Wattinree had mentioned that High Charity was undergoing refurbishment around the Jiralhanae world of Asphodel, and would be immobile for a short period of time. So quickly put aside before, the fact now stuck fast in ‘Falanamee’s mind.

Could they have found out?

“Maintainer, are any members of the High Council currently on Radiant Sanctum?”

The mind paused a moment again. “I do not possess that knowledge.”

Lost in thought, the Supreme Commander withdrew his hand from the Maintainer’s interface and moved slowly back to where ‘Adralee waited patiently, watching the distant battle with a keen eye.

“Excellency?” the ship master questioned, and then noticed the look of deep, tense contemplation on his superior’s scarred face. Taking his silence as answer enough, ‘Adralee turned back to the battle display without another word.

Below, the ferocity of the Imperial army’s assault increased, and in Pale Throne, human soldiers began to penetrate the ruined ranks of defensive placements and worker barracks, nothing between them now and the relatively untouched city center. In orbit, the combined fleet continued to wane, its ceaseless bombardment of the invaders rebuffed by deflector shields and storms of counter fire. ‘Adralee and his crew watched their controls with mounting frustration, which was gradually turning to anger. Why had the Imperial Admiral not allowed them to join their brothers in battle? Why, indeed, were they fighting and dying here at all? What could be worth the lives of so many Sangheili? Across the Fleet of Particular Justice, zealots and ship masters observed the slaughter fixatedly, tabulating mental lists as they watched soldiers they had served with for decades fall one after another to Imperial turbolasers.

At last, the silence of the flagship’s overbridge was broken by the call of a subordinate. “Supreme Commander, Admiral Wattinree demands communication with you.”

Brought back from his reverie, ‘Falanamee made a gesture of compliance, and in a few moments he stood before a full-size representation of the commanding warrior, his glowering visage tight in the Supreme Commander’s presence.

“What do you command, Excellency?” ‘Falanamee asked stiffly, genuflecting as was expected by custom.

“Human soldiers have trespassed upon the planetary capital. They will be dealt with soon, but several have seized the planet’s rector and his consorts. They have been placed onboard a small craft and are being flown out of the city and towards the intact, landed enemy warship three hundred units from Pale Throne. You are to move your fleet into the fighting, create an orbital perimeter, and then dispatch all the aerial units at your disposal to capture that vessel and reclaim the hostages. When you have succeeded, your fleet will focus their armaments upon the landed human craft and any nearby human forces. Is that understood?”

“I will obey, Excellency.” ‘Falanamee’s eyes rose to meet Wattinree’s in full, but his voice and manner did not change. “Who are these consorts, so that I may know that all have been reclaimed?”

Wattinree’s mandibles flayed outward slightly. “The rector is with a Prophet of the High Council. That is all that should concern you.”

“By your word, Excellency. I will not fail.”

“Be sure of it,” Wattinree sneered, and then ended the communication line. Before he disappeared, however, ‘Falanamee thought he caught a flicker of apprehension in the Admiral’s manner. The high officer may have utterly disdained his subordinate, but he was still wary of him.

Perhaps, ‘Falanamee reflected as he turned back to the command deck, with good reason.

“Shall I prepare the Sacrosanct for engagement, Supreme Commander?” ‘Adralee asked.

“Hold.”

The ship master looked at him in consternation. “Excellency?”

‘Falanamee stared back at the warrior, an odd look on his long face. He could tell that ‘Adralee had tensed at Wattinree’s words; decades of personal combat had given him a keen ability to read the postures of others, friend and foe alike. What mattered, however, was why he had tensed. Although a plan was still only half-formed in ‘Falanamee’s mind, he knew that the answer to that question might well decide far more than the next move in the battle.

“The fighting near Pale Throne is fierce, Ship Master,” ‘Falanamee said at last, choosing his words with extreme care. “You are prepared to die to fulfill this assignment?”

‘Adralee straightened and threw up his split chin. “I would throw down my life for the Holy Covenant in an instant, as would all of its warriors. My skill, my being is worth nothing if I do not give it fully in protection of the god’s legacy and the promise of the Great Journey.”

“I did not question your loyalty to the Covenant, or your bravery in the face of battle. I asked if you were willing to die for this objective. Will you sacrifice yourself and all of the warriors who fight for you to save these few Prophets?”

“If… if that is the edict of the Imperial Admiral and the design of the High Prophets.”

‘Falanamee drew closer to the ship master, until they stood barely a pace apart, eye to eye. “You faltered, Ship Master.”

“No, Excellency. My will is firm. The life of a single Prophet is worth more than all on this ship, if the Prophets have deigned it so.”

“We do not have time for evasion or deception,” ‘Falanamee growled, ignoring his words. “Speak with your mind and your heart. This is not the time to fall back upon old platitudes and worn traditions. Speak!”

The ship master bristled at the verbal onslaught, but it took him several moments to find his voice again. “I… do not believe that sacrificing the warriors of this fleet to save those Prophets is in the best interests of the Covenant.” The blasphemy of the words seemed to lash him as they left his gullet, but ‘Falanamee did not react in outrage, as he had feared. Within the Supreme Commander’s unblinking eyes, he instead expectation, and was seized by a new boldness. “I do not believe that Imperial Admiral Wattinree has been right to extinguish so many warships in the attempt to hold this system. I do not believe that the High Prophets were right to send this fleet here at all. We are warriors, proud and mighty Sangheili, not tools to be exhausted upon inconsequential fancies and replaced.”

“Why do you think that the Hierarchs have used us as such, ‘Adralee?” the Supreme Commander asked.

The sudden passion that had flared in the warrior faltered, and he seemed to deflate. “I do not know.”

‘Falanamee placed a firm hand on ‘Adralee’s right shoulder. He could see in the warrior the shock, the sudden despair of having an entire life’s work called into question. He had felt the same terrible uncertainty and fear not so long ago, as he plummeted towards death, betrayed by Tartarus on the orders of the Prophets themselves. It had not been easy to fight on, but ‘Falanamee could see strength in the younger warrior, power that would not be extinguished easily. He had the heart of an Arbiter.

“I do not know either, my friend, but I will find out why they have betrayed us. Will you come with me?”

‘Adralee slowly raised his eyes to meet the Supreme Commander’s once again. “What must I do?”

‘Falanamee squeezed the other’s armored shoulder, and then turned away to face the rest of the Sacrosanct’s command crew.

“You all have heard our words. Will you follow us to the source of this betrayal, wherever that course might take us?”

The Sangheili glanced at one another furtively, but one by one, they each pumped their chests in salute, and stood at attention before the Supreme Commander.

“Then charge the interstellar drives and prepare the ship for immediate departure. Instruct the other ship masters to do the same, and inform them that I will contact each as soon as we depart.”

“I will require the swiftest communication probe in your arsenal,” he added to the ship master. “Have it brought to my chambers immediately, and prepare to have the vessel brought back out of slipspace soon after we exit this system so that it can be dispatched.”

“It will be done, Excellency,” ‘Adralee replied. “What course should I set for the fleet’s departure?”

‘Falanamee considered briefly. He still had a chance to turn back, to follow Wattinree’s directive, to save the lesser Prophets from the hands of the Imperials, to die in battle, his heresy known only to a few. But he knew that he would not be the only one to perish. Even if, somehow, the Galactic Empire’s advance was turned back, he knew that his people would not survive conflict. The last edict of the Prophets had convinced him of that. There was only one option, and it involved in the greatest betrayal in the history of the Covenant. Many more soldiers, loyal and treacherous, would die because of the undertaking. But the Sangheili would survive.

“Take us to the Asphodel system,” he said at last. “To High Charity.”

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

Lumiya watched intently as the computer screen before her generated a long sequence of text that stretched from the top of the sizeable display to the very bottom and beyond, reading each brief line as it passed. The list, introduced into the system by a copied datacard the Dark Jedi had inserted into one of its many inputs, bore the names of the dozens of sentients that Aayla had contacted and “evaluated” over the previous weeks. Many of the names were displayed in an unremarkable font, but more than a few bore a jarring red coloration. Those had been the individuals who had “failed” the Twi’lek’s test, whatever it was. As she confirmed that each man, woman, and alien had indeed been a destination on the other’s grim campaign, she could peripherally recall the death throes of the few she had played a role in dispatching, and a base satisfaction bubbled up in the back of her mind.

The feeling quickly subsided as the cyborg set about her self-assigned task.

Since their arrival on Coruscant, Lumiya and her companion had kept largely to the Imperial Palace. Aayla seemed unconcerned with the murmurings of confusion and unrest at her master’s recent ascension and sudden departure amongst the planet’s gentry and general populace, and had made no attempt to ensure that Lord Vader’s will was still being carried out by the weakened political establishment he had left in place. Indeed, Lumiya had barely seen her at all, save in passing; she prowled the palace’s expansive, well-appointed hallways and chambers night and day with a confident, contemplative air, or disappeared for hours at a time within the labyrinth of foreboding, cryptic passages that were buried deep beneath the monolithic, gray-green pyramid.

Lumiya had welcomed this reclusive behavior. The profound, nameless unease she felt in the other acolyte’s presence persisted, and she could only focus herself when the alien was separated by floors of polished rock and cortosis plate. Besides, with her status as aide to Vader’s direct subordinate, Lumiya found herself with almost unfettered access to the massive complex’s overwhelming number and variety of facilities. The three kilometer tall citadel and the dozens of adjacent structures hosted military and intelligence offices of every branch and service, exotic armories and holographic training rooms, breathtaking gardens and galleries of artifacts plundered from ten thousand worlds. Presently, she sat within one of the impressive libraries that were built into every residential floor, overflowing with manuscripts, texts, maps, and logs on every imaginable medium and subject.

Still, the luxurious accommodations and her respectful, almost reverent treatment by the staff had not been sufficient to take Lumiya’s mind fully off her discomfort. The more time she had had to reflect upon their bloody tour while wandering through the capital peak, the more she felt something with it was wrong. So, she had decided at last to put the palace’s extensive facilities, specifically its computer mainframe, to work.

Methodically, the Dark Jedi began to read the data files that the system held on each of the names on Aayla’s list, searching each for the smallest clue as to what might be bothering her. The tally was quite diverse, as she had known it would be; Moffs, admirals, soldiers, civilians, all listed one after another. Some of the enumerated jumped out at her immediately, like Imperial Intelligence Director Ysanne Isard, whose interrogation had been brief and ultimately bloodless, and Admiral Harrsk of the Imperial Starfleet, who had been far less successful in gaining Aayla’s vital favor. Other names were so obscure that Lumiya was surprised that Lord Vader even knew they existed, much less suspected them of treachery.

Cycling past a sectorial bureaucrat by the name of Disra who Aayla had eliminated for no reason Lumiya could discern, she selected another link, and was rewarded with the gaunt, severe profile of an older human male. The name next to the picture read Grand Vizier Sate Pestage. Vaguely recognizing the title, she scanned his personal profile and service record. Pestage had served under Palpatine long before his ascension to the Imperial throne, or indeed, to the office of Supreme Chancellor of the Galactic Republic. He was a close and competent aide, tasked with everything from organizing his master’s daily schedule to making announcements on his behalf to orchestrating affairs of state that were below the Emperor’s attention. If anyone was to remain loyal to the old ruler after his death, Lumiya thought, it would be this man.

Pulling up the list again, Lumiya was intrigued to find that Pestage had not been one of those to fall to Aayla’s blade, despite his overt allegiance to Palpatine and his New Order. In fact, as she thought back on their crusade, she couldn’t recall him even being mentioned as a potential target.

A quick search on the official’s current status revealed that he had vanished from the Imperial Center a few days after Darth Vader’s ascension, taking a private shuttle and a few personal guards with him. The reasons behind his flight were unstated, but considering the fact that most of the Emperor’s Inner Circle was executed the following evening, Lumiya suspected that he was simply cagier than his former comrades.

The acolyte leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms in consternation. Pestage’s disappearance still didn’t explain why they hadn’t tried to track him down; several of the other marks on the list had made themselves scarce following the Imperial power shift. Full access to COMPNOR security reports and intelligence files from every corner of the Empire, combined with the Twi’lek’s uncanny Force perception, had made locating them a relatively simple task. A personage as high-profile as the Grand Vizier shouldn’t have been far more difficult to uncover.

Unable to glean anything further from the palace computer, Lumiya exited the library and began to pace through the complex’s wide corridors, lost in contemplation. The teachings of the Dark Side, aggression, emotion, action, were not fully compatible with deep meditation, but her solitary training on Ziost had cultivated in her a certain consideration that some of her more chaotic predecessors lacked. Nevertheless, the nature of Pestage’s disappearance and the larger mysteries surrounding it continued to elude her, and she wandered through the ornate hallways for some time, aimless and distracted.

Almost without noticing her progress, Lumiya descended from the Imperial Palace’s upper, private levels to the bulwarked sections that housed innumerable security and maintenance areas. Lower still, she passed by the street-level divisions; endless ranks of bureaucratic offices, cathedral-like audience halls, treasuries, and detainment facilities. Only when Lumiya had entered the sub-surface portion of the artificial mountain did she rouse herself from her contemplation and take stock of her surroundings.

“May I be of service, Lady Lumiya?” an army officer asked politely in a clipped, Coruscanti accent.

The cyborg found herself at one of the many checkpoints that guarded the lift systems into the Imperial Palace’s lower levels. The questioning soldier stood at attention behind his spartan desk, which bore controls for the biometric scanners, weapons detectors, and automated defense systems strategically placed around the small chamber. Two gray-uniformed troopers flanked the turbolift hatch at the far end of the room, rifles clipped to their belts and arms held stiffly at their backs. A casual scan of the three men revealed a mixture of curiosity and fear; the former feeling probably triggered by the sight of any visitor more exotic the standard fair of tight-lipped intelligence agents, bored bureaucrats, and expressionless droids.

Her cloaked appearance and reputation as a servant of Lord Vader’s explained the latter. Her powers were nothing next to that of her Sith Master or many of the Jedi that he had hunted down and slain, but she could still kill the trio of guards without a second thought, and they seemed to know it on an instinctual level.

“No,” she replied. “Simply allow me access to the lift.”

“Of course, my lady.” The officer tapped a few commands into his computer terminal, and the turbolift doors slid open. Lumiya advanced towards the exposed cubicle without another word, ignoring the salutes of the flanking guards as she passed.

“If you are looking Lord Vader’s apprentice, she passed through here less than half an hour ago. I believe she was headed for sublevel four.” The turbolift’s doors cut the soldier’s afterthought short, but the information still gave Lumiya pause. Sublevel four was one of the deepest and most secure sections of the complex, barred from her even when she had served as an Emperor’s Hand, one of Palpatine’s elite. What would Aayla be doing there?

With a quick command, the lift detached from its magnetic moorings and plummeted down its shaft, streaking past grids of armor plating designed to withstand orbital bombardments and hidden chambers that housed secrets privy only to the supreme ruler of the galaxy and his closest confidants. The trip lasted only a few seconds, but Lumiya began to sense the Twi’lek’s presence before the compartment even began to slow.

Now, though, the sensation was not merely unsettling. It chilled her to the core.

Pushing through the undefined warning signals that wailed in the back of her mind, Lumiya burst from the lift and made off down an empty corridor. The sublevel was a collection of crisscrossing, featureless passageways, lined by dozens of similarly uniform doorways, but the Dark Jedi did not hesitate as she turned down one corridor and then another. Aayla’s presence was a beacon, alluring and terrible in its strength.

When she came to a pair of non-descript metal doors at the end of one corridor, she paused, suddenly unsure of herself. Why was she seeking Aayla out? The two had avoided each other since their mission had been fulfilled. Why broach that distance now? Lumiya couldn’t even recall why she had chosen to continue on into the depths of the palace over the course of her rumination; it was as though she had been drawn there by there by something far behind her conscious comprehension.

Of course, that thing, the Dark Jedi realized, was the Force. But it was the duty of the Jedi to adhere to that mystical flow, not the followers of the Sith. They were the masters of the Force, shapers of their own destinies, not pawns of some abstract will.

Bristling at her own lack of focus, Lumiya turned from the doorway, intent upon returning to the more well-traveled areas of the facility. Before she could take a step, however, a new sensation grazed the edge of her perception. The presence was indistinct, clouded by Aayla’s own, but it only took her a few moments to recognize it for what it was.

The barrier slid away soundlessly, revealing a moderately-sized, barely lit room of a cold and practical style that she immediately identified as a treatment chamber. Cloaked in the shadows undiminished by the dim light, automated medical analysis equipment dominated the walls, their outlines ominous and imposing. Beyond a set of inactive mechanical armatures mounted in the ceiling, a bacta tank sat recessed at the center point of the back wall. Clearly illuminated by warm back-lights, the three-meter, transparent tube caught Lumiya’s attention immediately, and she knew the figure that was suspended within it before she even saw his scarred face.

“Skywalker.”

“You’ve met him?” Aayla stood nearby the tank, slowly typing commands into the device’s free-standing interface panel.

“Yes,” the cyborg said, moving closer to the floating, motionless form. “Before my training in the Dark Side, I served as an agent of Imperial Intelligence. After Grand Moff Tarkin failed to wipe out the Rebellion at Yavin, Lord Vader instructed me to infiltrate the Rebel Alliance and destroy it from within. Luke Skywalker discovered me, shot down my starfighter, and left me for dead. I survived, mutilated and forever confined by these wrappings and implants.” She stopped before the young Jedi’s damaged face, and starred at it in a mixture of rage and disgust.

“How did he get here?”

“Vader captured and confronted him during the rout of the rebel fleet at Sullust,” Aayla replied, not looking up from her work. “The two dueled, and Skywalker was mortally wounded.”

Lumiya turned to face the Twi’lek. “But then why is he still alive? This boy destroyed the Death Star. He killed millions of Imperial soldiers. He is the hope of the Rebellion, and has been enslaved by the teachings of the Jedi Order. Why would the Dark Lord save him from death, and hide him away here, on the Imperial Center?”

“Because he is Darth Vader’s son.”

Lumiya’s green eyes widened. “His son? How… Lord Vader never spoke of any offspring.”

“He was hidden,” Aayla explained, almost disinterestedly. “Stolen away from Palpatine at the dawn of his New Order. Even Vader did not know of his heir until they encountered one another at Yavin Four. He found his son an enemy of the Empire and pawn of the few Jedi who survived the Great Purge, and so Vader devoted himself to hunting the boy down. They fought twice, and Skywalker was defeated twice. Yet, Vader never slew him, or turned him from the Light.” A humorless sneer creased Aayla’s face. “Such is the power of love.”

Lumiya looked back at the man, her anger giving way to amazement. Not only had her master fathered a child, he had defied the Emperor’s fatal edict against the Jedi Order and spared his life. The Vader she knew was not subject to sentimentality or mercy. Skywalker must have great potential indeed to be spared and maintained even after all of his trespasses. Either that, or the Dark Lord truly did care…

She abandoned the idea quickly. No Sith as powerful and focused as Darth Vader would be flawed by such a weakness. Keeping an enemy alive, flesh and blood or no, with no reason beyond familial affection directly defied the teachings of the Sith. The only duty was to oneself. Others, servant and family alike, were ultimately tools for personal advancement, and nothing more.

Lord Vader had a sound reason for preserving Skywalker, and she would not attempt to second guess his methods. The wounded Jedi had fallen under the Sith’s protection, and she would honor that bond.

One of the diagnostic monitors mounted on the side of the bacta tank emitted a warning tone. The lights that defined the inert figure within began to dim, and the low hum of the machinery that continual cycled and filtered the bacterial solution in which Luke Skywalker was immersed quieted.

“What’s going on?” Lumiya asked, checking the human’s life sign readings, which were starting to fluctuate. “Why is the machine powering down?”

Aayla did not respond. Looking towards her, Lumiya found that the alien was still methodically tapping at the chamber’s control panel, apparently unconcerned by its immanent shutdown.

The Dark Jedi placed a hand warily upon the weapon affixed to her belt and took a step towards the Twi’lek. “Stop what you’re doing, Aayla. Step away from the interface.”

An invisible hand grasped hold of Lumiya’s torso and flung her back, sending the cyborg careening into a row of antitoxin dispensers. When she was a heap of metal and armorweave sprawled across the floor, the pressure dissipated; the sudden attack had not required Aayla to even look up from her work.

Regaining her breath and instinctively steeling her senses from combat, Lumiya grabbed hold of a dented container and pulled herself up onto one knee. She had neither expected nor anticipated blow, and even her Force-attuned martial senses had been unable to pick up on Aayla’s move before she was hurtling backwards across the medical room. The Twi’lek’s uncanny speed was unnerving, but Lumiya managed to retain her focus.

“Stop!” she growled. “Skywalker has been taken by my master, our master, and he will deal with him when and how he sees fit. I will not let you kill him.”

“Do not interfere.”

Lumiya felt a familiar tightness settle around her neck. Lord Vader had trained her to identify and combat dozens of different Force techniques, Jedi and Sith alike, and this was one of his favorites. Immediately, she threw up a mental barrier around her windpipe, gasping for breath as an unseen vice began to squeeze hard on her throat. Her free hand flew in Aayla’s direction, and a mental impulse activated a cybernetic implant in her wrist. Its palm ignited with sanguine flame, and a blaster bolt burst from it. The glowing lance angled at the Twi’lek’s chest, but the snap-hiss of a lightsaber blade filled the chamber, and the bolt burrowed harmlessly into the floor behind Aayla.

Lumiya’s weapon flew into her own hand as she leapt to her feet, and the lightwhip’s four metallic lashes uncoiled in the air around her. Each filament sheathed itself in coherent lightning, and the cyborg lunged, pulling back her hilt in preparation for a blow. Aayla watched her streak forward impassively until an instant before the cyborg reached her, and then ducked, allowing the energized strands to rake the empty air. Undeterred, Lumiya arrested her forward momentum and pirouetted around, her weapons snaking back with her in staggered bands.

Aayla rolled sideways towards the rear wall to avoid the attack, ignoring the heat of the lightwhip as it grazed one of her lekku. Planting her feet on the vertical surface, she pushed towards Lumiya low across the floor, slashing at the other’s legs with her blade. Lumiya leapt upwards, propelled herself behind the Twi’lek, and landed with arms and legs splayed, ready to lunge again. Aayla also regained her footing, but rather than press the offensive, she drew back a few steps, positioning her blue blade before her, firmly clasped in both hands. Less willing to give her attacker respite, Lumiya lifted her left palm and primed its blaster projector for another shot.

Aayla easily deflected the blast, sweeping her lightsaber horizontally to both plant the bolt in the wall and meet Lumiya’s new onslaught; an instant after she fired off her shot, the cyborg had come at Aayla from the right, her weapon a whirling vortex of energy. Blade and whip clashed momentarily, but the flexible strands deftly wrapped around the static sword and probed onward towards the alien’s unprotected side. However, before they reached their target, the filaments twitched and went flat, their guiding force distracted. Taking advantage of Lumiya’s aggressive push, Aayla had summoned several pieces of loose machinery from the walls behind her, and the objects were now pelting the cyborg form all sides. A bulky restraining assembly rapped her across the weapon’s hand, and her grip on the lightwhip loosened slightly.

The momentary weakness was all that Aayla required. Moving within arms length, she simultaneous slashed Lumiya across the hip and willed the hilt from her jarred hand with a blast of telekinetic energy. Grunting in pain, Lumiya attempted to move away from the other combatant, but Aayla latched onto her frayed cape and pulled it around the cyborg, making her stumble and forcing her to divert her mental resources to repel the invisible assault. Again, the Twi’lek took used her distraction to move closer, and Lumiya lashed out at her with a free leg, aiming high for her head. Aayla noted the incoming blow peripherally and ducked to avoid it, raising in place of her head the blue shaft of her lightsaber.

Separated from the lower half of her leg, Lumiya lost her balance completely and fell to the floor. The limb was largely prosthetic, but the shock of losing it in such a way shattered what remained of her concentration, and Aayla moved over her quarry unopposed. Dropping to her knees, the Twi’lek straddled the wounded cyborg and slid her lightsaber neatly into the gap between collarbone and chin.

Lumiya glanced at the glowing blade, and then shifted her gaze back to Aayla, who stared back without any sign of emotion visible on her face. She hadn’t even broken a sweat. Her eyes, which had shown with a cruel pleasure as she prepared herself for previous kills, burned with a different energy, one unlike any Lumiya had ever witnessed before. As she looked into them, the aura that had for so long unnerved her froze her heart.

“What are you?” Lumiya whispered.

Aayla’s mouth opened slightly, stopped, and then curved into a grim smile.

“Free.”

A swift downward thrust ensured that Aayla’s ruthless visage would be burned forever into Lumiya’s eyes.

The Twi’lek rose, deactivated and stowed her weapon, and moved casually back to the bacta tank’s control panel. A single index finger moved across the surface, purposefully pressing a final sequence of keys. In response, filter slits at the top and bottom of the tank revealed themselves, and jets of antibacterial protein poured into the solution, tinting the bluish liquid a sickly yellow. As the chamber filled with the substance, vital-sign monitors mounted on its side began to deviate more widely, and one even began to emit a plaintive warning peal. Aayla simply shut it off, along with every other devices attached to the cylinder, until only dim lights remained, casting Luke Skywalker’s expressionless face in deeper and deeper shadow as the yellowish coloration condensed and clouded the liquid.

Aayla watched the Jedi disappear into the fog for a long time, until the features of his battered, weary face were no longer discernable.

“And now, Skywalker, only your father remains,” she said quietly, running an ungloved hand over the smooth surface.

Then she reached for the master control once more, found the appropriate command, and depressed it. The tank’s lights faded to blackness, and shadow engulfed the lifeless form completely.

First post!

Good to see Lumiya & CO back.

Well. I didn't see that coming. Luke dead. Lumiya dead. Ire, you are great at killing off important characters. Excellent chapter. And Murazor, Lumiya is dead.

Sorry it took so long to reply (Mozilla firefox will not let me log in for some reason). However, this is a nice twist in the plot, it is nice to see that the story is not turning out anything as I predicted.

Oh.

Here I was thinking that Riker would be the last of the main character deaths, and then you go and kill off Luke and Lumiya. Vader will not be pleased when he hears of this. Has Aayla become completely unhinged at this point? In any case, as I said earlier, a willingness to "murder your darlings" is a refreshing change from most fanfiction indeed, in which everyone but the minor characters have Stargate-esque character shields. Well done; I think The Rift has defied just about every fanfic 'convention' I can think of at this point.

In any case, that was a bloody good chapter, Ire. A damn good chapter, if I do say so myself. The inner Sangheili enthusiast in me celebrates at the Arbiter's dramatic reappearance. I think I speak for fellow Halo enthusiasts everywhere when I say: more Elites! I do so want to find out what those treacherous Prophets are up to, though I can't help wondering if Aayla's latent schizophrenia is becoming contagious... defying the Imperial Admiral and leading an armada against High Charity is not conducive towards one's longevity, I imagine.

And in case I haven't said so before, I'm really liking your descriptions and prose as of late. Some might call it excessively wordy, but I like to think it hearkens back to a more... Victorian era of richly descriptive 'high literature'. In any case, your characterization and writing in general has improved markedly since you began all those years ago.

However, I find my thoughts of late turning back towards poor Barclay. Is he still alive and (relatively) intact? I have this horrible mental image of him being tortured to death in a dismal holding cell on High Charity, a fate I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemies -- or even annoying Star Trek characters.

Dominus wrote:Here I was thinking that Riker would be the last of the main character deaths, and then you go and kill off Luke and Lumiya. Vader will not be pleased when he hears of this. Has Aayla become completely unhinged at this point? In any case, as I said earlier, a willingness to "murder your darlings" is a refreshing change from most fanfiction indeed, in which everyone but the minor characters have Stargate-esque character shields. Well done; I think The Rift has defied just about every fanfic 'convention' I can think of at this point.

As I've said before, I always appreciate drama more if the fates of the main characters are in doubt. I'm quite glad you think I've effectively broken the mold that defines most fanfiction in that regard, and I have a few more surprises left in store before the end.

And in case I haven't said so before, I'm really liking your descriptions and prose as of late. Some might call it excessively wordy, but I like to think it hearkens back to a more... Victorian era of richly descriptive 'high literature'. In any case, your characterization and writing in general has improved markedly since you began all those years ago.

Some have commented, not necessarily in regards to The Rift, but in general, that my writing is overly flowery, and I'm gratified that it hasn't been turning anyone here away. I have worked somewhat on streamlining it since the tale began, but I do leave some wordiness intact where its appropriate; I just feel more comfortable writing that way, and I think it works well with some of the more grandiose aspects of the story.

However, I find my thoughts of late turning back towards poor Barclay. Is he still alive and (relatively) intact? I have this horrible mental image of him being tortured to death in a dismal holding cell on High Charity, a fate I wouldn't wish upon my worst enemies -- or even annoying Star Trek characters.

Fear not; Barclay has not been forgotten. He still has a role to play, and besides, I actually like him as a character in the ST canon. Most people seem to find ol' Broccoli grating, but I find his personality flaws rather endearing.

Noble Ire wrote:As I've said before, I always appreciate drama more if the fates of the main characters are in doubt. I'm quite glad you think I've effectively broken the mold that defines most fanfiction in that regard, and I have a few more surprises left in store before the end.

That's rather ominous. Why do I suddenly get the feeling that you're going to start heaping misery upon the Halo characters as well? I don't think I could bear to see the Arbiter or Cortana, or even John-117 die, unless it was done in a suitably prosaic scene requiring the entire second half of the Halo 2 volume 2 OST as background music.

Some have commented, not necessarily in regards to The Rift, but in general, that my writing is overly flowery, and I'm gratified that it hasn't been turning anyone here away. I have worked somewhat on streamlining it since the tale began, but I do leave some wordiness intact where its appropriate; I just feel more comfortable writing that way, and I think it works well with some of the more grandiose aspects of the story.

As someone who's had the "overly flowery/purple prose" label slapped onto many an English paper of mine, I daresay I know how you feel. I find that your prose lends itself well to describing the seemingly implacable forces of the Galactic Empire from a Covenant (Sangheili) perspective; it lends the entire structure a suitably desperate, epic feel that would be found lacking otherwise. Oh, and your depictions of Coruscant in all its glory are enough to make even this lapsed SW fan drool.

Fear not; Barclay has not been forgotten. He still has a role to play, and besides, I actually like him as a character in the ST canon. Most people seem to find ol' Broccoli grating, but I find his personality flaws rather endearing.

Ah, such is the quality of this fanfic that you've made me like Barclay, which is why I find myself so uncharacteristically concerned with his well-being.

Very nice your fan fic deserves an award. I shall give it a 10/10. Oh and keep up the good work Noble.

Chapter Sixty Two

Deep Space Nine’s large wardroom was quiet. The chamber was packed nearly to capacity with men and women of every species and uniform, but very few of them spoke, and what little conversation there was barely registered over the faint ambient hum of the space station and the collective breathing of two dozen sentients. Tension pervaded the space, on the faces of the attendees and in the very air itself; brief, grim glances were traded only sporadically, and even subtle fidgeting was carefully controlled as to not break the heavy silence. Each waited, both anxious for and terrified of the words that would inevitably intrude upon their muted gloom.

The Allied armada’s last champions were seated around the long, hexagonal table at the center of the room. Fleet Admiral Nechayev was positioned at one end, and General K’Nera faced her across the smooth expanse of metal. Between them, Captain Picard, Councilor Leia Organa, and High Templar Tassadar filled one side. On the other, backed by a bank of circular viewports, sat Shakaar Edon, First Minister of Bajor, Commander Suran, flag officer of the Romulan task force, and the Cardassian Legate Ekoor, de facto spokesman for the motley collection of vessels from Cardassia, Ferenginar, and a dozen other worlds that had thrown their lot in with the Federation and its allies against the Zerg.

Standing around them were the most prominent admirals, captains, and commanders of the Allied force who could be spared from patrol duties. Shoulder to shoulder with Leia’s ever-present protocol droid, Commander Gavplek stood stiff and distracted, one cheek covered with a bacta wrap, a token of his narrow escape from the Republica. With Captain Ryceed unconscious in Deep Space Nine’s sickbay, the human was the acting executive of what remained of the Alliance detachment. Truul and the Master Chief were rooted nearby, and Jacen Solo observed the proceedings from a far wall, removed and watchful as always. Even Han Solo and his wookiee copilot had found it necessary to leave the Millennium Falcon for the meeting, and waited behind the ranks of Allied officers, Han’s eyes fixed protectively on Councilor Organa.

Legate Ekoor glanced furtively at those seated around him, and then stiffened his scaled neck. “Well, what is to be done?”

Admiral Nechayev squeezed her interlocked fingers together until their thin knuckles shown white. “Our overarching campaign strategy must be reassessed.”

“Campaign strategy?” Commander Suran said loudly, furrowing his prominent eyebrows. “What campaign? Our only advantage against the Zerg has been lost. Without the Republica, this fleet has little hope of retaking a single occupied system, much less the entire Alpha Quadrant.

“And what would you have us do, Suran?” K’Nera growled. “Hole up around this world and wait for the Swarm to strip our flesh from our bones? Flee into deep space and abandon what is left of our peoples to death?”

“The Romulan Star Empire still stands, General, and it will not fall easily,” Suran said. “Perhaps, if we waited before throwing our lives away in a futile campaign, this Alliance could dispatch another emissary to the Senate on Romulus. I’m sure some accommodation for the transfer of refugees could be reached if a military force of this size was offered to supplement the Imperial Fleet…”

“I will not serve under the heel of your cowardly masters, Romulan,” K’Nera spat. “My soldiers will not wait idly around your worlds as Klingon Space is violated by the presence of the Zerg. They would rather die in battle, and I with them.”

“You needn’t tell us that, Klingon,” Suran said in disgust. “We all know how willing your people are to destroy themselves and anyone around them for the sake of your personal honor. Go then. Take your ships and dash them against the Swarm. The loss of your blustering cannot hinder the war effort greatly.”

K’Nera jerked upward out of his seat and slapped his hand onto the hilt of the dagger affixed to his waist, but before he could unsheathe it, Captain Picard was also on his feet.

“Enough! Sit down, General!” He turned an enflamed stare on the Romulan flag officer, who had also begun to move for the weapon ensconced on his person. “And you, Admiral! Calm yourself! I will not allow old feuds to tear this alliance apart! Remember what we -all of us- are fighting for. Think of how pointless these squabbles will become if the Zerg are the only other organisms left in the galaxy to observe them.”

Both aliens paused, and after an exchange of acid looks, settled back into relative, if somewhat superficial, repose.

When he was certain that the risk of open violence had passed, Picard continued. “Now, Suran, your concerns are warranted, and your offer of potential asylum is appreciated, but I do not believe that any of the officers and soldiers of this fleet would be willing to so completely abandon their homes. If they were, this fleet would have dispersed into the depths of space a long time ago.”

“The Captain is correct, Admiral,” Nechayev put in. “The Federation will not leave the Alpha Quadrant to the Zerg. Not while a single Starfleet vessel can still fire its weapons. We’ve already lost far too much to withdraw now.”

“I believe I speak for the people of Bajor when I say that we will continue to stand by and sustain this fleet as long as we can,” First Minister Edon said. “And our world remains open to those among you who cannot fight.”

Suran slid back in his chair, a frown etched deeply into his features, but he remained silent.

Admiral Nechayev offered a nod of thanks to the Bajoran, and then turned back to the other commanders. “Now, as I said, we must reconsider our strategy against the Zerg. Without the Republica, it will no longer be possible to retake and hold as many key worlds as we had initially hoped. Even considering their losses during the recent raid, the fleets controlled by the Swarm outmatch this armada by a significant margin, more than two to one. Their continued infrastructural advantage is another matter that must be considered. In time, they will be able to replace their casualties. At present, we cannot.”

“Then we must ensure that they are not given that time.” All eyes turned to Tassadar. “The Zerg have been thrown off-balance by the loss here. It will not take Kerrigan long to reform her designs and bolster her hordes, but right now, she is weak. We must strike the Swarm at its heart. We must kill its queen.”

Ekoor regarded the Protoss skeptically. “Without the Republica, this fleet lacks the firepower necessary to mount any major offensive against the Swarm. How can we hope to defeat its master?”

“The location of this Kerrigan isn’t even known, at least not to my intelligence agents,” Suran said.

Tassadar was silent for a moment, his piercing gaze not focused on any obvious target. “I know where she lurks. The human homeworld, where this infestation began.”

Ekoor remained unconvinced. “How could you know that?”

“During her flight, our minds touched, and for an instant, I could perceive her intent. Kerrigan is there.”

Noting the incredulity evident on the faces of several of those assembled, Picard raised his voice once more. “The High Templar’s insight and intuition have been more than reliable in the past. It has been his intelligence just as much as the assistance of the Alliance that has allowed us to resist the Zerg advance as well as we have since their arrival. If Tassadar believes that Kerrigan retreated to Earth, then I trust that we will find her there.”

“There is intelligence that would support Tassadar’s supposition,” Nechayev, raising her hands to her chin pensively. “As much as I dislike falling back on hearsay, there were rumors early in the war from the some of the survivors of Sol that an entity fitting the description of the Zerg Queen was sighted overseeing the seizure of Earth. It is possible that she is still using it as her headquarters.”

“My scouts did report an unusually high concentration of vessels around Sector 001 during their last foray near the region,” General K’Nera said, finally tearing his eyes from Suran. “The information is old, but it may still be valid.”

Ekoor nodded slowly. “Very well. Let us assume that Kerrigan is on Earth. We still must get to her, and as the General implied, she will probably have a large portion of her forces amassed for her defense, whether she expects an attack or not. Can we defeat the Swarm in an open engagement?”

“We can’t begin to predict that until we have more up to date information on the system,” Nechayev pointed out. “Kerrigan’s cumulative forces outnumber ours, but her fleets are still expanding into the outer territories of the Federation and the Klingon Empire. Her core vanguard may be relatively weak.”

“What force of arms she holds there now is irrelevant,” Tassadar said. “Just as we know that she is weakened, the Queen of Blades knows that the loss of the Republica has greatly weakened the armada here. She will draw in what broods she can to regenerate her main fleet, and then launch an overwhelming assault against this planet. If we tarry, her fortress will become unassailable, and this one will fall. We must strike now, no matter the odds that stand against us.”

The captains and commanders standing around the war council exchanged a flurry of earnest whispers. Their tones indicated uncertainty and no small amount of fear, but there was hope there as well. Many of them had given up on the prospect of victory as the Republica erupted into flame before their viewscreens. It was obvious that Tassadar’s proposal would demand a heavy toll, and he offered no illusions of certain or even likely success, but the plan was still something. After constant retreat and desperate, aimless fighting, many of the soldiers found the prospect of a last charge at the very heart of their foe far more palatable than yet another flight.

“We may have lost the Republica, but the Alliance will still honor its vow to stand alongside the free people of this galaxy,” Leia Organa said evenly, her face proud. The destruction of her escort craft and the loss of much of its crew had shaken her deeply, but she was far too practiced a diplomat to let that uncertainty show. “Our fighter squadrons are still operational, and their pilots will fulfill whatever roles that this assembly gives them.”

Han Solo crossed his arms and grimaced. “Always nice to be volunteered for suicide missions, isn’t it Chewie?”

The Wookiee replied with a half-hearted moan, and the human nodded. “Yeah, I know.” Both had thrown their lot in with the Alliance a long time ago, for all the peril and regulation that it engendered. If Leia believed that defeating these Zerg could help salvage the Rebellion, then he would give himself fully to the effort. Besides, the honorable rogue in him couldn’t feel anything but hatred for the ruthless and savage threat that the Swarm represented. And then there was the matter of the Republica itself. Even as a General of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, a respectable freedom-fighter and leader of men, Han wasn’t above payback.

Commander Gavplek was less enthusiastic. “Councilor Organa, I must remind you that without the Republica’s munitions and fuel stores, the effectiveness of its squadrons are greatly diminished. The flight commanders estimate that each fighter has enough consumables available for one, perhaps two engagements, but no more. Any long-range hyperspace jumps or extensive maneuvering will reduce their operational time even further.”

“That is all the more reason to engage Kerrigan as soon as possible,” Captain Picard replied, drawing attention back to him. “I can understand why some of you are reluctant to commit your warships and the lives of those under your command to such a risky strategy. Indeed, all of us should be. Nevertheless, the destruction of the Republica has deprived us of our best hope for victory. If we do not exploit what little of the initiative in this war we have left, its terms will return completely to the Zerg. If that happens, I am certain that no fortress or free world for a thousand light-years will be able to weather their onslaught. This is our last chance, and if we do not agree to take it now, it will be lost forever, and us with it.”

No one spoke for a moment. The Captain hadn’t said anything profoundly new, but he had given voice to the thoughts that already pervaded the room. The blunt and explicit finality of his words would have been enough to inspire despair in another assembly, but many of the observers had no room left for any more hopelessness. And in the absence of desperation, determination grew.

Fleet Admiral Nechayev blew out a long sigh, and then nodded slowly. “As I can see no other viable option, I am inclined to commit all of the resources at Starfleet’s disposal to Tassadar’s plan. I will not speak for the rest of you, however.”

“You will have every warship and warrior that the Klingon people can muster,” General K’Nera declared, raising his bearded chin proudly. “We will see Qo’nos avenged, no matter the cost.”

Ekoor glanced at each of the other leaders around him, and then he too nodded. “If both the Federation and the Klingon Empire are willing to take such a risk, then the rest of the fleet will follow them. You have my support.”

With Leia’s allegiance already known, all eyes turned once again on Suran. The Romulan was still glowering, and did not immediately speak. Instead, he fidgeted with the burnished pin of a predatory bird on the formal sash slung over his chest, deliberately ignoring the anticipatory crowd. One his lieutenants let his arms fall slowly to his sides, and it appeared as though he was about to prompt his superior when Suran let go of the ornament and rose abruptly from his chair.

“This strategy is both unnecessary and ill-advised, and I will not allow the vessels under my command to play any part in it. All Romulan assets associated with this fleet are hereby withdrawn, and the task force will return to the Star Empire as soon as I board my flagship.”

“Commander, wait…” Nechayev began, but the Romulan had already turned his back on the table. Flanked by his two subordinates, Suran made for the wardroom’s exit, ignoring the shocked looks and resentful whispers of the soldiers who reluctantly parted before him. When he reached the door, he paused and turned back to face the other flag officers.

“I implore you, reconsider. I… the Romulan people have no desire to see the Federation, or the Cardassian Union, or even the Klingon Empire vanquished. My fleet will remain in the Kazis system, near the Neutral Zone, for several days before I continue on to Romulus. I will await word there.”

Captain Picard stood slowly, and met his counterpart eye to eye. “You must understand, Suran, that if we join you, we will have been defeated. A kinder fall, perhaps, but in the end, the result would be the same.”

Suran’s lips quivered as though he was about to say something, but he remained silent, looked about the assembly one last time, and then stepped through the door, his officers close on his heels.

“Shouldn’t we try and stop him, Admiral?” a Starfleet captain asked, shaking off the shock of Suran’s sudden departure.

“No. Let him go. I doubt that we could do or say anything to change his mind, and I’m not prepared to keep the Romulans here by force. We will have to make due without their assistance.” Nechayev’s face was stiffly expressionless as she spoke, and a hint of pallor began to settle onto her features. The loss of thirty cloak-enabled line warships was not enough to completely undermine the viability of an armada of hundreds, but no matter what they found around Earth, the Admiral knew that even a slight reduction in the force’s overall strength could shift the tide of battle to the defender’s favor. Still, nothing could be done. Suran had made his decision.

Seeing that the others were similarly distracted by the abrupt abdication, Nechayev swiftly pulled herself together and brought them back to the business at hand. “We’ll need to dispatch a few ships before the main bulk of the fleet to gather what data we can on the composition and distribution of Earth’s defenses. It will take about forty hours at maximum warp to reach the Sol system, so we need to locate a captain willing to undertake the operation immediately.”

“I’ll go.” Han waded through the crowd to the tableside. “The Millennium Falcon is faster than any of the other starfighters in the Commander’s squadrons. Just give me navigational data on the route to Earth, and I can be in-system in a few hours. It’ll only take a few more hours to take a few long-range scans of the planet and its defenses, and I’ll be back here before your fleet is ready to get underway.”

He noticed the uneasy look on Leia Organa’s face. “Don’t worry, Councilor. Just reconnaissance, and then I’m out of there. I doubt that the Zerg have anything that can keep up with the Falcon, and Chewie wouldn’t let me stick around to cause any trouble by myself even if I wanted to.”

The Wookiee mumbled something wearily, and the General grinned. “See?”

“You’re assistance is greatly appreciated, General Solo,” Nechayev said formally, saving Leia from having to respond. “I’ll have the relevant astrometric data transmitted to your ship, and one of my officers will brief you on specific targets you should monitor.”

“Now, how soon can the fleet be fully prepped and outfitted for combat?”

“Cortana has been monitoring the operation of out shipyards and repair satellites,” Picard said, and then punched a key on the small interface inlaid on the table before him. “Cortana?”

A large display screen at one end of the wardroom flickered to life, and the artificial intelligence’s disembodied voice directed the attention of the Allied leaders to the figures and schematics flowing across its surface.

“If re-supply operations continue at their current rate, all functional warships should be fully rearmed and supplied by twenty-three hundred hours. However, it will take at least twenty-five more hours to effect repairs necessary to restore the combat effectiveness of fourteen ships damaged in the recent engagement with the Zerg, most of them from General K’nera’s Vor’cha attack cruiser squadron.” Small representations of the formidable, winged craft lined up on the display, each of them displayed with areas of their hulls marked with red, indicators of damage. “A further half dozen warships will not be functional for at least a week.”

“I recognize the urgency of the impending battle, but I would ask that we delay our departure long enough to allow my attack cruisers to join us in battle,” K’Nera said, carefully scanning the name of each temporarily incapacitated ship.

“Agreed,” Nechayev replied. “We will use the time to reorganize fleet structure for the assault and analyze the data Genera Solo will acquire. Major Truul, Master Chief, how quickly do you think that you can organize and supply a few companies of ground troops from our existing marine corps? If Kerrigan is our final objective, we may have need of them.”

Truul glanced at the Spartan next to him briefly and considered for a moment. “We’ll, ma’am, if you give me two days, I can give you about two thousand shock troopers. The Chief and I have already begun marking out units and selecting field officers. Still, we haven’t had any time to train any of your marines for the kind combat they’ll probably see on an infested planet, and we don’t have anything in the way of combined arms.”

“I understand, Major. Their existing training and equipment will have to suffice. Just give me as many infantry units as you can, as quickly as you can.”

The two saluted in unison. “Ma’am.”

Nechayev nodded and then took a deep breath before continuing. “Alright. I want this fleet ready to deploy in forty-eight hours. Squadron commanders, return to your ships and begin drilling your crews for combat operations. When General Solo returns, I’ll reconvene here with the fleet commanders to discuss our battle strategy. Let’s not waste time until then. We all know what’s at stake. Dismissed.”

The assembly dissolved into small groups of eagerly conversing officers who quickly made for the exit hatch and their waiting vessels. As Councilor Organa held a hurried conference with Gavplek, Truul, and Solo and the Bajoran First Minister took Nechayev aside to discuss matters of planetary defense, Picard remained seated, his attention focused on the interface upon which his right hand rested. His face impassive, the Captain keyed a sequence of commands. Without a word, the information Cortana had displayed on the chamber’s screen faded away. Picard punched in a final series of digits, glanced at the brief message that cycled across the interface’s tiny alphanumeric strip, and then lifted himself from his seat. As he moved to join his fellow commanders, his eyes flickered towards the wide viewport that lined the exterior wall, beyond which the minute forms of thirty starships began to ease into motion.
-----------------------------------------------

“Step aside, Jiralhanae. Your cohort is blocking the way.”

Five sets of beady, crimson eyes focused on the Sangheili who had spoken, a blue-armored soldier with a streamlined plasma carbine slung proudly at his side. Behind him, half a dozen other minor infantrymen stood, their hands resting on weapons or balled up before them. Each was of moderate build and stature, and the coloration of their uniforms indicated a lack of significant combat experience, but the slow wavering of their open jaws and stiff posture gave them a distinctly menacing appearance.

The five Jiralhanae grouped before them were far less uniform and military in appearance, but their sheer bulk and the animal aggression that oozed from their every pore more than made up for any apparent deficit. They wore a motley collection of simple cloths and heavy belts over their leathery flesh and coats of matted hair. None were armed, as embalms on their sparse clothing indicated that they were laborers, but their fingers and bulging arms were tensed with obscene strength.

The largest of the group stepped forward, positioning himself squarely in front of the lead Sangheili, so that the latter was forced to look up to face him.

“Are we in your way, noble Sangheili warriors?” the brute said, his tone obviously mocking even under a heavy accent. “Simple workers like we wouldn’t want to delay noble Sangheili warriors.”

“Then step aside,” the minor replied, his voice completely devoid of humor.

The Jiralhanae pantomimed thought, made a show of looking around, and then offered a fanged grin to the soldier. “We simple workers were just stopping here for a rest. The view is nice, isn’t it? We wouldn’t want to leave, not yet.” Something red dangled from one of the simian’s lower teeth, blown towards the Sangheili’s pristine helmet with each blast of rancid breath.

The soldier glared unblinking up at the impediment to his progress. “We are defending adepts of High Charity and warriors of the Hierarchs. We require passage. I will not ask again.”

His squad tensed, and the grips on their weapons tightened.

The Jiralhanae scanned the group, snorted, and then moved slowly to one side of the narrow walkway. His cohort reluctantly followed suit, and stared silently at the Sangheili as they began to march past. When the rest of the troop had moved through, the lead soldier cast one more razor glance at the hulking simian, muttered something under his breath, and began after the others.

Suddenly, the Jiralhanae reared back, his eyes blazing, and spat on the floor behind the departing warrior’s boot. He glanced back for the source of the movement, and upon seeing what the worker had done, halted with a shout. His carbine was off his hip in an instant, and by the time he leveled the long-barreled weapon at the offending brute, the other soldiers had their rifles at the ready, and were backing together in a hasty battle formation. The Jiralhanae, who still held both sides of the raised path, also tensed for combat, looming to their full heights and raising hammer-like fists.

“What is this?” a voice boomed from one end of the walkway.

Rapidly approaching from a nearby antigravity lift station, a wiry Sangheili was pointing an ornate, luminous pike four meters in length at the group. The warrior was of the Honor Guard, as the glowing mosaic of yellow fins and splayed plates adorning his black and deep burgundy armor clearly indicated. The sacred order had been tasked with the defense of the High prophets since the founding of the Covenant, and there were few honors greater for a Sangheili soldier than to be selected to serve amongst its exclusive ranks. The warriors were renowned both for their high status and their exceptional fighting skill; even alone and armed only with his ceremonial staff, this particular guardsman could probably slay half of both feuding parties before any of them even drew his blood.

Arriving at the now motionless assembly, the Honor Guard swiftly identified the leaders of each group and angled his weapon towards them threateningly. “Explain this discord. Now!”

The Sangheili minor immediately offered him a formal nod of supplication. “This work detail was impeding our progress to our duty station, Honor Guard.”

“Is this true?” the veteran Sangheili barked at the lead Jiralhanae.

The laborer appeared to size up the new arrival, but quickly decided against any rash action. The reputation of the Honor Guard crossed species, and they were among the few Sangheili who the Jiralhanae often made a show of respecting, even if many Sangheili suspected that they simply coveted the ancient and esteemed order for their own.

“We moved out of the way of these soldiers, like they asked,” he grunted in response.

“Then what is the problem, soldier?” the Honor Guard asked again.

The minor officer looked angrily at the taller alien beside him, and began to form a complaint, but stooped himself. It was true, the Jiralhanae had challenged his personal honor, but the insult was a lesser one, especially since it had not come from another Sangheili. The Honor Guard might understand, or he might be more concerned about brawl that had almost unfolded within sight of the Covenant’s most holy compounds. And Honor Guards took their duties very, very seriously.

“Nothing,” the blue-armored soldier replied at last. “We were just moving on.”

“Then get on with it. I won’t permit unrest within this city, especially not when it’s caused by High Charity’s own defenders.” The Honor Guard turned to the Jiralhanae. “And you. Move your squad along as well. I’m sure there’s work waiting for you.”

The laborer shot a hooded glare that the guardsman, but did not protest.

The aggregate dispersed in short order, and traffic gradually resumed along the high concourse. One of the trickle of military and civilians to cross it first, Deau ‘Mefasee hurried down the path, oblivious to the spectacular view of High Charity’s main city that stretched out below. She was in no particular rush to be anywhere, but the scene she had witnessed on the bridge had made her distinctly uncomfortable, and she felt a sudden impulse to escape the vast, crowded openness of the grand metropolis.

Antagonism between the Sangheili and the Jiralhanae was nothing new, but since the arrival of the marauding human fleet, it seemed that tensions were growing to a fever pitch. There were more and more reports of scuffles and brawls between the two factions every day, and although most of them were isolated to the city proper, incidents like the one she had just witnessed were occurring on High Charity’s exclusive upper levels as well, and even within the nearby guardian fleet. Such open discord was almost unheard of.

Before she had met Supreme Commander ‘Falanamee, she would have simply guessed that the mounting tensions were the result of the ongoing conflict, which, despite the assurances and legerdemain of the Prophets, was not flowing in the Holy Covenant’s favor. Indeed, that was likely part of the cause, but she knew there was more; fundamental and ominous change was afoot within the very capital of the empire. Although none of the orders were explicit, various edicts of the High Prophets had lead to a mounting prominence within the ranks of the Jiralhanae. Where they were once only laborers and silent bodyguards on High Charity, now more and more of its garrison was Jiralhanae as Sangheili-dominated units were transferred to the war front. The hulking beasts were also ascending to supervisory roles in civil works and administration as hundreds transferred onto the station from Asphodel, around which High Charity was positioned while its recently overexerted drives were overhauled.

Even among the ranks of the other species of the Covenant, there was change. The Kig-Yar, always determined to assert their superiority over the majority Unggoy, seemed to be inspired by the subtle upheaval in the higher echelons of society, and were becoming bolder, even to their traditional Sangheili masters. There were reports that the insectoid Yanme’e, ever insular and mysterious, were becoming even more inaccessible, even to the point of insubordination. The mammoth, neigh invulnerable Lekgolo showed signs of mounting paranoia.

At a time when the disparate races of the Covenant required solidarity and consistency most of all, their entire social order was being undone and remade, all by the dictum of the High Prophets, supposed keepers of the status quo. If ‘Mefasee had ever needed validation of the Supreme Commander’s heretical theories, she had it now.

The raised walkway connected two sectors of Ascendant Level, a network of suspended platforms, dome-mounted structures, and high towers. It was set between the skyscrapers of the city proper on the floor of High Charity’s massive internal cavern and the grid of structures positioned high above both, a place of monuments and gardens, the High Council Chambers, and the wide domain of the High Prophets. This middle area housed many of the space station’s administrative offices and the sanctums of the lesser Prophets, along with apartments and assembly areas for visiting fleet officers and other dignitaries. Through the influence of ‘Falanamee, she had been granted one such apartment, relatively far from the central nexuses of governmental, religious, and military activity, but close enough so that she could easily observe and report on significant developments for him, as he had instructed before his departure.

Stepping off the bridge, she traversed a busy promenade briefly before turning off into a walled side street. She moved swiftly, stopping occasionally to surreptitiously scan the path behind her, almost as by reflex. After a few more intersections, she came to a circular courtyard with a small, well-maintained garden at its center. The space was empty save for a single Huragok; the bulbous creature was completely absorbed in repairing a communications transceiver feed it had uncovered beneath a metallic cobblestone, and ignored ‘Mefasee as she hurried by.

Quickly ascending a wide, curving flight of steps to the second floor of the modest, reddish structure to her left, she found her room, keyed its biometric lock, and slipped inside.

A cursory inspection of the small space revealed that it was empty save for its requisite set of amenities and her spare personal effects, all of which had been untouched in her absence. Her status as a minor adjunct to the Supreme Commander, although providing a great deal of access to a wide variety of information, apparently had not made her a target of any obvious scrutiny. Still, the swift and lethal punishment that awaited those who defied the Prophets, even in private, had made her perpetually on edge. Nevertheless, she began to strip off the light-hued attendant’s uniform that her service had afforded her, relaxing marginally as she did.

‘Mefasee had removed the traditional, largely ceremonial metallic plates that most official Sangheili garments were adorned with and was undoing her simple bodysuit when she noticed that an indicator light on her room’s single communication alcove was illuminated. She moved to the holographic tank and activated it. Flowing hieroglyphic text informed her that a private communiqué awaited her review, one that had been transmitted to her terminal by an unspecified source just moments before she had returned. Intrigued, and more than a little wary, she keyed the recall routine.

The miniaturized form of Teno ‘Falanamee blossomed before her in a column of light, still dressed in the regalia of his office. His features were distorted by the projection’s small size and relatively poor quality, but ‘Mefasee could tell from his posture that he was extremely tense, far more so than he had been when they had first met aboard the August Judgment.

“I am returning to High Charity,” he began bluntly. “The time for action has come. There was no time to encrypt this message, so I cannot be more specific, but I know that you will understand my meaning.”

The Sangheili’s breathing quickened. She understood what he meant all too well: their private sedition was about to become extremely public. She had never doubted that were actions behind ‘Falanamee’s words, but she had not expected something so soon.

“There are two objectives you must complete before my arrival in half a cycle’s time. First, you must take a copy of the holographic stream encoded within this one and deliver it to city’s primary communication’s hub in the lower districts. Ask for the Monitor Principal there, and tell him that you bear a message from me. We have fought alongside one another in the past, and he will trust in my orders. Give him the stream and have him broadcast it on as many communications channels as he can, both on armada and internal frequencies.”

“Then, use the command codes I provided you to contact your Unggoy on the August Judgment. Tell them to stay as close to the captives as they can, to watch them carefully, and everyone who interrogates them. The two are not to come to harm, if there is anything in their power they can do to prevent it.”

“I must have this drone launched soon if it to reach you before I do, and I must warn you, there has been no time to enhance its stealth or security capacity. If it is discovered, you will be in great danger. The Hierarchs are watching me and all associated with me very carefully, and they will not hesitate to slain you or use you against me. I know that you will fulfill all that I have asked of you, and I must trust that you will defend yourself until my return, should the need arise.”

The recording muted momentarily, and ‘Mefasee could not tell if the silence was due to a glitch in the grainy recording, or an actual pause on the Supreme Commander’s part. When ‘Falanamee’s voice returned, it was clear and powerful, as though he stood before her himself.

“May our forefathers fight with you, Warrior, and their honor blaze your trail. Should one of us fall before the end of this, know that you have served the Sangheili well, and that you will always command this heretic’s respect.”

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

Well, that's part four. Endgame begins with the next chapter, and I hope to have The Rift complete by early this fall (ideally, I'd have it done before I go off to college in later August, but I'm not sure if I can manage the ten or so chapters left in that time frame). In any event, I'd like to thank everyone who has kept with the story up to this point. Your comments have really kept me going.

Let's see how a REAL civil war is done!

Excellent writing there. I can't help but feel pity for those poor infantrymen who are going to be dropped on Earth. And the Romulan fleet... Perhaps swooping in to save the day? Or not?

And the big question: will Kerrigan finally die?

Hmm... can't believe I missed this, but oh well -- being second to comment isn't such a bad thing, after all.

Before we begin, may I just throw out a little enthusiasm: Huzzah! Captain Ryceed is still alive! Can't say that I foresee much of a role in the story for her, given the loss of the Republica, but I'm glad to see that she made it through nonetheless.

The situation certainly seems dire on both fronts, though I like the symmetry here -- the Alliance is preparing for what must be a suicidal assault on Kerrigan's stronghold just as the Arbiter finally decides to go to the wall (in a very literal sense) for his 'heretical' beliefs. I wish the lot of them the best of luck -- though given the relative lack of character shields in this fanfic, I can't help but suspect that a great many of my favorite characters won't be coming back. Combined with Aayla's recent psychosis on Coruscant back in the GFFA, I daresay that you are exactly right -- endgame is coming; I can feel it in my bones. Here's to hoping the High Prophet of Truth dies slowly and horribly, whatever the case, and that someone finally deals with Kerrigan.

At least Cortana is more or less a guaranteed survivor, given her distance from the front lines... unless you decide to bring about the heat death of the universe somewhat prematurely. You wouldn't do that to your loyal readers, now would you? I'm trying to think positive thoughts about the characters that have a realistic chance to be saved, here!

And yes, to echo Hawkwings' comments above... I rather think that those 'regiments' Truul and the Master Chief promised Nechayev will fit the definition of "meat shield" perhaps more closely than many Imperial Guard regiments in 40k. Alas, poor redshirts, we knew ye well... well, not really.

ENDGAME? So soon!?

While I can see how the Arbiter's heresay is coming to a tilt and the Alliance are going after Kerrigan, I can't immediately see how certain other conflicts will resolve themselves, if at all: the Imperial cause in the Haloverse will certainly not be halted by a Covenant civil war, and neither will it be impeded much in the Warsverse without much of a Rebellion left to fight the good fight, to say nothing of Luke's absence in what must surely be a very disturbed Force. And while the crew of the E-D may very well be rescued by covert means, I still can't see Picard making good on his promise to free those taken captive by the Empire while the Empire itself still stands.

And has the Empire dealt with the UNSC yet?

Dominus wrote:The situation certainly seems dire on both fronts, though I like the symmetry here -- the Alliance is preparing for what must be a suicidal assault on Kerrigan's stronghold just as the Arbiter finally decides to go to the wall (in a very literal sense) for his 'heretical' beliefs. I wish the lot of them the best of luck -- though given the relative lack of character shields in this fanfic, I can't help but suspect that a great many of my favorite characters won't be coming back. Combined with Aayla's recent psychosis on Coruscant back in the GFFA, I daresay that you are exactly right -- endgame is coming; I can feel it in my bones. Here's to hoping the High Prophet of Truth dies slowly and horribly, whatever the case, and that someone finally deals with Kerrigan.

I don't want to give away anything on this front, but I will say, the last chapters won't exactly be bloodless.

At least Cortana is more or less a guaranteed survivor, given her distance from the front lines... unless you decide to bring about the heat death of the universe somewhat prematurely. You wouldn't do that to your loyal readers, now would you?

Rest assured, there isn't a deus ex machina in the cards for this finale.

TithonusSyndrome wrote:ENDGAME? So soon!?

A check in Word pegs The Rift at 603 pages, single-spaced; I've been writing and "publishing" it for well over two years. I decided a while ago that I really needed to end it, and so far the story is progressing the way I want it to.

While I can see how the Arbiter's heresay is coming to a tilt and the Alliance are going after Kerrigan, I can't immediately see how certain other conflicts will resolve themselves, if at all: the Imperial cause in the Haloverse will certainly not be halted by a Covenant civil war, and neither will it be impeded much in the Warsverse without much of a Rebellion left to fight the good fight, to say nothing of Luke's absence in what must surely be a very disturbed Force. And while the crew of the E-D may very well be rescued by covert means, I still can't see Picard making good on his promise to free those taken captive by the Empire while the Empire itself still stands.

Ah, the multitude of plotlines I've woven for myself. Well, I can guarantee that I'll provide resolution for all of the primary storylines, but that doesn't mean that everything will be completely wrapped up. Keep in mind, I've been considering a potential sequel. Still, The Rift does have a defined ending, and it is coming up, although there is certainly still ground to cover.

And has the Empire dealt with the UNSC yet?

Outside of Cortana and the Master Chief (and the tail end of the Battle of Reach), the UNSC doesn't play any real role in the plot. What's left of the human fleet has retreated to their last worlds, as happens in the canonical storyline, and the arrival of the Imperial Fleet and subsequent distraction of the Covenant Armada has given them time to lick their wounds. The Empire knows that there are humans native to the new Galaxy, but UNSC space is too small and remote to be seriously investigated and bothered with while the Covenant still exists as a viable entity.

How did I miss this for almost a day?

Well, it's time for the Covenant Civil War to start, and with the Empire in the Galaxy, I think it can be safely said that the Covenant is screwed. I know the Chief will have an important role in the Endgame.

With the Republica gone, the Feds only chance of defeating the zerg would be to kill Kerrigan, so I'm looking forward to seeing the meatshields that will accompany Chief on Earth.

So sad that The Rift is almost over, though. WHY SO SOON?!

On an unrelated note, how did I miss my promotion to Jedi Knight for so long? Last time I looked I had like 280 posts.

I am clapping to the echoes and therefore after.
Great chapter and Vie Rift!!!!

Excellent new chapter .
The "Last ditch suicide strike ending in a few brave elite attacking Kerrigan in her throne room" is a little cliche, but I don't mind (Especially since SC cheated us of Tassadar vs Kerrigan, while SC2 looks to only have Zeratul facing the Queen of Blades).

Civil war in the Covenant heats up yet again, yum .

DEATH wrote: The "Last ditch suicide strike ending in a few brave elite attacking Kerrigan in her throne room" is a little cliche, but I don't mind (Especially since SC cheated us of Tassadar vs Kerrigan, while SC2 looks to only have Zeratul facing the Queen of Blades).

Only the last chapters of The Rift will tell, and I wouldn't bet on anything. Then again, I'm not really a gambler.

Part Five: The Rift

Chapter Sixty Three


The Chamber of Reflection sat imbedded in High Charity’s outermost armored shell, and served as the very edge of the Sanctum of the Hierarchs, the exclusive domain of the High Prophets and their favored elite. Like the rest of the sacrosanct complex of towers, high passageways, and bottomless vaults, the room was shaped and molded to the height of Covenant aesthetic sensibility. Its floor was tiled with curving panes of a substance that glowed with a ghostly emerald light, and finely-hewn wall struts arched along the walls and ceiling towards the center of the chamber, where they held up a projection tube that cast a pillar golden light to a low refraction dais set into the floor. The narrow supports framed a massive viewport that covered nearly a full half of the domed wall, beyond which Asphodel’s curvature was back-lit by its distant primary, oceans glinting in the dusk light.

The beautiful view was completely lost on the handful of individuals gathered there. The High Prophets of Regret, Mercy, and Truth sat motionless on their hovering thrones, clustered around the centrally pillar of illumination while the towering, white-haired Jiralhanae Tartarus stood to the side in watchful waiting.

After a long moment of silence, Truth leaned back against the padded reverse of his conveyance, and steepled his bony fingers.

“Play it again,” he said quietly.

“Again?” Mercy balked. “Have these heretical words not defiled this holy place enough?”

Truth did not turn to face the older Prophet, keeping his bulbous eyes locked on the beam of light.

“Play. It. Again.”

Mercy’s thin, dry lips tightened at Truth’s tone, but he passed a hand over one of the subtle holographic nodules that studded the armrests of his throne. In response, the illumination took on a bluish hue, and the almost life-sized form of a Sangheili in the regalia of a mighty and honored warrior resolved within the projector’s beam.

“Sangheili of the Holy Covenant, hear me!” the soldier began, his arms stretched wide and posture open and energetic.

“Brothers! I am Teno ‘Falanamee, Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Particular Justice and ship master of the Sacrosanct. I may not be known to all of you, but there are some among you who know of me and of my undying service to the Covenant. Look to them, and they will tell you that I am a warrior of honor and virtue. I have lead warriors into battle in space and on land, and fought in the very heart of each fray. I have slain uncounted hordes of foes and heretics with my own hands, and carried wounded comrades upon my back from the deadliest of peril. I have crushed all who would deny our great purpose, and burned their worlds to teach them the price of their defiance.”

“Through all of this, I have been loyal to the Prophets and believed with all my being that I would find salvation with the gods in the Great Journey when our sacred quest was done. That is the very basis of this Holy Covenant, and the dream for which every Sangheili warrior has fought and died since the First Age of Reconciliation. Without it, our great union is nothing, an empty shell. Without loyalty and honesty between the Prophets, shepherds of salvations, and the Sangheili, guardians of our great concord, our divine empire is a lie.”

“No Sangheili would ever break this compact, and our allegiance has never wavered. We have lived and we have died by the word of the Prophets for millennia, and all we have asked in return is that the Prophets give us respect and never cease their quest for the salvation of all.”

“We have not broken our great Covenant. But the Prophets have.”

‘Falanamee paused for a moment, as if to let the meaning of his words resonate through the still air. He spoke openly of the greatest heresy imaginable. The meaning was one that the most wrathful of heretics barely dared to whisper, and yet here a Supreme Commander of the Covenant Holy Armada stood, declaring it proudly on an open transmission. Had they not heard it before, one of the High Prophets surely would have gagged.

“I know what I must say is almost inconceivable, but believe in the honor of this warrior, I would not dare even think it did I not know its truth with all my heart. The Prophets have betrayed us. They have betrayed the Sangheili, and they have betrayed their own Covenant. Their promises of redemption have come to naught; rather than remain loyal to the Writ of Union, they have conspired in secret with their Jiralhanae minions to unseat us from our rightful place in this empire. They would replace us with mindless brutes who will serve them without question as the Prophets abuse the trust of the peoples of the Covenant for the sake of their own personal power. They would see the Sangheili enslaved, or wiped from the galaxy before we could even raise our arms in defiance!”

“Think, my brothers! Who has spilt blood the most in the war against the humans and their new weapons of conquest? Not the Jiralhanae. No, they have remained in safety around their worlds as our holy realm is consumed, sneering mongrels at the beckon call of the Prophets. They laugh as noble Sangheili warriors charge into battle by the millions, only to be slaughtered as the Hierarchs weaken our armies from within.”

“I do not know why the Prophets have betrayed us. Perhaps they have been consumed by greed and lust for power. Perhaps they have angered the gods, and fear the terrible retribution their impiety has provoked. Perhaps everything they have ever told the other peoples of this galaxy has been a lie, and now they seek to stave off discovery and just recompense. We will discover the root of their treachery in time, but for now, we must act.”

“To arms, my Sangheili brethren! The Covenant is broken, but we will not be destroyed with it. We must strike now, before the Prophets can further enact their vile plans! We must crush them and their minions before the corruption of betrayal allows this galaxy to be consumed by enemies from without and within! There is no more time for words! Go now, and save our people from the dark! May our forefathers fight with us!”

The image of the Sangheili floated silently in the projection beam for a moment, piercing each of the viewers with his unblinking stare. When the warrior finally dissolved back into a colorful snow of light, Mercy and Regret traded apprehensive looks and then turned their attention back to the impassive Truth, reluctant to interrupt his contemplation of the message again.

“How far has this transmission spread, Tartarus?” the High Prophet questioned at length, his tone even.

“It was broadcast on an open channel to every transceiver within communications range, noble Hierarch,” the Jiralhanae said, stepping forward. “Before your soldiers tracked down the transmitting comm hub and shut it down, the traitor’s message was repeated several times, and publically displayed at numerous locations within the lower and upper districts, as well as in several cities on Asphodel’s surface. There are also reports of sightings on at least twenty ships throughout the fleet.”

“And still, this heretic’s word spreads,” Regret said angrily. “Disabling the communications hub has not halted ‘Falanamee’s proclamation from being passed by whispers and shouts through the streets. Already, masses of Sangheili have formed at exchange hubs and oration chambers, demanding an answer from us. The faithful and doubting have taken up arms against one another, and their conflict threatens to explode into every corridor and concourse. The Sangheili of the High Council have convened without our summons and even now sit in the council chamber, demanding that we come forward and answer ‘Falanamee’s charges.”

“They would summon us?” Mercy scoffed. “They have not the right!”

“Whether or not they have the right no longer matters, Brother,” Truth said, laying his palms flat upon the armrests of his throne. “The rule of law cannot withstand Sangheili passion when it is enflamed.”

The Hierarch’s eyes drifted. “I had not anticipated that this fleet master would command the respect and admiration of his kind that he does; they would not revolt so easily on the behest of many other warriors. Perhaps I was wrong not to punish him for his failure at Reach.”

“Lamentation and reflection can come later, Brother,” Regret said. “But what must be done now? Surely, there must be a way to diffuse this situation. To mitigate the potency of the Supreme Commander’s words, or discredit them?”

Truth seemed to consider briefly, but his expressionless face quickly hardened with resolve. “No, the damage that ‘Falanamee has inflicted is too great. Even if we quell the storm today, the Sangheili will never truly trust us again. After all, what he says is the truth, although I do not know how he has discerned it. No, we must accelerate our plans. We must act now to cripple the power of the Elite.”

Regret’s head jerked back on its long neck in surprise. “Now? The Sangheili still control much of the armada, even the squadrons stationed here. They still fill the ranks of the Honor Guard. There are half a dozen armed Sangheili standing outside this very door!”

“They can be dealt with swiftly.” Truth turned to Tartarus. “Are you soldiers prepared?”

“Yes, Hierarch,” the chieftain replied. “I have cohort of Jiralhanae trailing every member of the Guard.”

“Good. It is unlikely that many will relinquish their posts now, even if your soldiers bear the force of my edict. Kill them, but only those who can be eliminated quickly and quietly.”

Tartarus’ eyes lit up with feral glee. “At once, my lord.”

“And what of the Council?” Regret demanded. “If they learn that what ‘Falanamee has claimed is true, they could rally an open rebellion with ease. Can Tartarus’ forces slaughter every single Sangheili in this system at once?”

“Their warriors are nothing next to ours,” Tartarus growled. “Sangheili blood would flow through the streets.”

“Open civil war?” Mercy choked. “Within High Charity itself? Unthinkable!”

“Mercy is correct,” Truth said, raising his hands to placate the others. “Warfare should be delayed as long as possible. Our loyal forces require more time to be fully prepared, and I will not allow the Sangheili to damage this holy place with their death throes. No, the semblance of peace should be maintained as long as it can be. The riots can be quelled without too much further bloodshed, and our hold on the fleet is in little danger, at least at the moment. Besides, not all Sangheili will be quick to pledge their lives to the Supreme Commander; we still have some allies among them.”

“The Council still demands an audience,” Regret pressed.

“And we will give them one. Tartarus, allow the Honor Guard near the Council Chambers to live, but mass as many of your troops as you deem necessary nearby, hidden. Have others block off the main entryways and exeunt to the level; allow no one in or out. If any councilor asks why, tell them that it is for their own security. We would not want any of them injured by a riotous mob.”

“When you have deployed your forces there, I want you to take a detachment and venture into the lower districts. Interrogate the director of the communications hub from which ‘Falanamee had his message broadcast, and track down the agent he used to initiate this heresy. I suspect you already know who it may be.”

Tartarus nodded once and straightened up, hefting his mighty war hammer.

“Bring her to me at the Council Chambers,” Truth continued. “Alive.”

A blast of steamy breath escaped Tartarus’ nostrils, but he said nothing.

“Now go.”

“And what of us?” Regret asked as the Jiralhanae loped hurriedly towards the door.

“You, Brother, will contact the ship master of the August Judgment. He will not place his faith in ‘Falanamee easily, and I believe he can still be trusted. He holds aboard his ship two prisoners, humans captured after the battle at Reach. Have him personally escort them to High Charity and brought to the Council chambers. They must arrive intact.”

“Mercy, gather the senior Prophet councilors within Far Tower Haven. They will be safe there. When both of your tasks are complete, travel to the Council Chambers and stall the Sangheili there. I will join you in good time.”

“Only the senior councilors?” Mercy questioned.

“Yes. We must not have it appear as though we fear Sangheili hostility. Do not worry; the rest will not be in any significant danger. If nowhere else on this station, we still control the Council Chambers.”

“And what will you do until you join us there?” Regret asked, obviously unhappy with the other’s plan, but all too clear upon where the true power within the Covenant lay.

“I expect that the Supreme Commander will not allow his heresy to spread untended for long,” Truth replied, turning back towards the central projector. “I do not wish him to arrive unwelcomed.”
----------------------------------------------------------------

Cakap was leaning on a curved bulkhead deep within the August Judgment, trying to look inconspicuous to the stream of crewers and officers walking by, when Migaw found him.

“Cakap? Cakap!” the second Unggoy called excitedly as he jogged towards his fellow as fast as his stubby legs would carry him.

Cakap jerked to attention when he heard his name being called, but relaxed when he saw Migaw skid to a halt next to him.

“Where have you been?”

Migaw took a deep drag on his breath mask to calm his pumping heart. When he had regained his breath, the crewer straightened up, but rather than reply, he cocked his head quizzically, peering at the corridor in which they were standing.

“Why are you out here?”

Cakap closed his eyes in exasperation. Concentration was not among his comrade’s boundless complement of skills, like eating, or tripping over his own feet.

“There was a fight on the hangar deck,” he replied. “Apparently, one of the big shot Sangheili said something nasty about the Prophets, and now everyone on the ship is arguing about whether or not he was right, or something like that. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out was really going on. Some of the guards were reaching for their rifles, and I don’t feel like getting zapped if somebody does something stupid. I’ve had enough of doctors for quite awhile.”

Migaw nodded in agreement. The pair had been ordered to the medical decks for examination after they escaped their commandeered recovery ship. Covenant physicians were undeniably efficient, but notoriously unconcerned for the comfort of their patients.

When it became evident that Migaw wasn’t going to volunteer the source of his previous excitement unprompted, Cakap blew out a sigh.

“So, why were you late for our duty shift?”

Migaw’s tiny eyes widened. “Oh! Right. Do you remember those humans who took our old ship? The ones that they captured?”

“Yes.”

“And ‘Mefasee? You know, our last commander?”

“Of course I remember her! We were reassigned less than a cycle set ago! What does she have to do with anything?”

“Well, I was still in the warren – I guess I overslept – and somebody told me that a Sangheili wanted to see me on the transceiver line. It was her. She told me to take you and find the humans. She wants us to watch them and make sure that no one does anything to them. That was it; she cut the transmission, and I came to find you.”

“Protect the humans?” Cakap balked. “Why would she want to us to do that?”

“Who knows?” Migaw shrugged. “She said it was important, though. She said it was the Supreme Commander’s orders. You know, that one who transferred her to the Prophet’s space station.”

Cakap noted the grimace on Migaw’s face when he mentioned the other Sangheili, even behind his breath mask. He almost instantly recalled the source of his comrade’s discomfort; the Supreme Commander, Teno ‘Falanamee, the one with the scarred face, had been with the humans who had captured their salvage transport, and had personally knocked both himself and Migaw out cold in the process.

His mind flew back to the only other time he had met the Sangheili, briefly before their reassignment and ‘Mefasee’s departure. He had taken the three of them into an empty storage chamber and talked with their old commander. Migaw and Cakap had been largely excluded from the conversation, aside from both being made to promise never to reveal the identity of their attacker, but the latter still remembered what the two had discussed. There had been a lot to do with the Prophets, and the Jiralhanae, too. It was dangerous talk, about betrayal and war and the lies that the Hierarchs were telling everyone. Heresy.

Unlike many of his kind, Cakap was not very religious. He paid respect to the Prophets, of course, and retained a peripheral understanding that the gods existed somewhere beyond the stars, but he was not particularly enthused about the prospect of throwing his life in the name of one or the other. The concept of the “Great Journey” had never made much sense to him, either. What’s the good of paradise if you’re dead? Instead, Cakap proudly thought of himself as something of a pragmatist.

Nevertheless, he understood the implications of heresy, especially of the scale that ‘Falanamee described. If the Prophets lied, then none of their sermons or their edicts could be trusted. If that happened, there would be no one to lead the Sangheili or the Jiralhanae, or any of the species under them. And if that happened…

Cakap suddenly realized why tensions on the hangar deck had been so high. The Supreme Commander must have openly announced his suspicions. The Unggoy looked fervently up and down the corridor. It was quiet and largely empty except for them, but Cakap was beginning to think it wouldn’t stay that way for long. War, a new war, was coming, and people like him had a way of being the first to die in them. He would need to pick a side before one was chosen for him, and the idea of being on the wrong side of ‘Falanamee’s fist again wasn’t that appealing.

“Cakap?” Migaw prodded.

The Unggoy sighed. “What level are the main prison blocks on?”

“You mean that you actually want to do what she asked?” Migaw sounded surprised a more than a little distressed. “I didn’t think that you would actually…”

“I’ll explain on the way,” Cakap said, cutting his companion off and hurrying towards the nearest lift nexus. Migaw watched him walk away for a few moments, glanced down the hallway in the opposite direction, and then opened his mouth to mount some protest. When it became apparent that Cakap wasn’t going to stop, however, he let out a small moan instead and waddled after the other, his atmosphere tank bobbing back and forth on his back furiously.

Despite the carrier’s impressive size, it didn’t take the pair very long to locate the prison block, a corridor lined one either side with large, no-descript hatches, located a short distance from the ship’s command center. Security was tight, and the guards patrolling the hallways were unusually tense, but Cakap and Migaw managed to bypass them without too much effort; one of the very few advantages of being on the very bottom of the Covenant social pyramid was the ability to simply blend into the background when one wasn’t doing something blatantly suspicious. Nevertheless, Cakap took care not to enter the corridor until a patrolling trio of Kig-Yar moved away down an adjoining passage.

It was obvious which chamber housed the humans; only one of the hatches was flanked by a pair of armed Sangheili Minors. Neither Unggoy had had much luck figuring out how exactly they were going to get to the human’s cells and watch them unnoticed when they actually found them, but it quickly became apparent that that would not be a problem. The egress was open, and it appeared as though a fairly large group of officers and soldiers was exiting the confinement chamber.

“Isn’t that the Ship Master?” Migaw asked nervously, pointing at the gold-armored Sangheili at the head of the group.

Cakap threw out an arm and pushed his companion and himself as far back against the corridor bulkhead as their methane tanks would permit. “What is he doing here?”

Galo ‘Nefaaleme, commanding officer of the August Judgment, paused in the middle of the corridor and turned back to watch as a contingent of Unggoy and Sangheili filed out after him. Cowering between two purple-hued special operations soldiers, part of the Ship Master’s personal guard, a pair of light-skinned humans limped along at the center of the group, their fabric garments badly tattered and their soft hides bruised and cut. Stooping to clear the opening, two Lekgolo brought up the rear, mutely covering the hallway with the massive fuel rod cannons embedded in their right arms.

With the ship master at its head, the group formed up and marched purposefully towards the exit of the block. None of them paid a second thought to the pair of crewers pressed up to one side of the corridor; even the fellow Unggoy in the procession ignored them, their attentions completely focused on their primate charges and the obviously agitated ‘Nefaaleme.

“Is the path to the port shuttlebay clear?” the ship master demanded of a silver-armored Sangheili at his side as he brushed past.

“It is, Excellency,” the officer replied. “There are still reports of disturbances across the primary decks, but they are swiftly being quelled. The Guard is executing your order to slay any crewmember found rousing unrest efficiently.”

“Good,” his superior said as his detail reached the main egress. “I won’t have my ship fall to rebellion while I’m on the holy city. Not because of him.”

When the others had passed from sight, Cakap glanced doubtfully at his companion, to which Migaw replied with a jerky, non-committal shrug. Cakap sighed deeply, wondering as he often did how the two could have been spawned from the same genetic pool and then half-heartedly set off for the exit.
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The combined forces of Asphodel’s defensive fleet and High Charity’s spaceborne guardians hung nervously in space, their communications arrays alive with hurried proclamations, outraged inquiries, and calls for order, all of them enmeshed with the rebellious declaration that still found its way further into the armada. Clustered about the world and its massive artificial satellite, Sangheili and Jiralhanae ship masters attempted to keep their agitated crews in line, doling out swift and brutal punishments to any who defied their millennia-old doctrines of discipline. The assemblage of warships in the system, one hundred and seventy capital ships and innumerable fighter and support craft, was relatively modest for an empire that stretched across the galaxy, its forces spread thin combating the new human aggression, but the firepower they bore was still sufficient to lay waste to an entire star system in hours. If a single rash or zealous commander decided to break the tentative quiet of space, every living thing within billion kilometers could be obliterated.

But the peace held, as uneasy as it was. The crews and commanders of the defensive fleet had been taught and trained from birth to adhere to the ancient chains of command and social order that gave the Covenant its foundation, and the conventions proved difficult to break. Doubt and anger simmered in a billion minds, but the bonds of tradition held them at bay.

The call to arms from the Prophet of Truth himself helped preserve this tenuous obedience. He declared that the Supreme Commander, the one who had preached such dire heresy, was hurtling towards their sacred capital, and that he was borne at the head of a war fleet. It was a portent of his true intent, Truth said; he would conquer High Charity and claim the Covenant for his own. ‘Falanamee’s claims of treason on the part of the Prophets were a mere pretense for his wanton aggression, and his words were empty and baseless. Some of the fleet masters doubted these accusations, but their instinct took over where their minds were unsure, and a mighty vanguard of warships formed to block the most likely invasion routes into Asphodel’s orbit.

The defense was a layered one. A core of carriers and kilometer-long frigates formed a shell around High Charity’s bulbous mass, while heavier cruisers and capital ships moved into a trio of loose bands some twenty thousand kilometers out. Arcing perimeters that emanated from the capital station, the three were positioned at angles “above”, parallel to, and “below” its orbital plane, with the planet’s mass used as the final segment of the grid. Thousands of Seraph fightercraft poured from their base vessels and filled the empty space between with sweeping patrol formations and nimble maneuvers.

It was a standard defensive arrangement, developed by the first Covenant admirals and drilled into the memory of each and every fleet officer. Nevertheless, the posture came together more slowly than it should have, and it was not without its kinks and gaps; many navigators and commanders were still distracted by the implications of the rogue Supreme Commander’s message, and even if they had not been, there was still the fact that nearly a third of the ships in the combined fleet were helmed by Jiralhanae. They were new appointments, elevated by the Prophets themselves “to assist in the elimination of the new human threat”, and many Sangheili were finding it difficult to interact with the simians as full equals.

Just as the Hierarch had predicted, even as the defenders finalized their transient ramparts, slipspace monitoring platforms and picket ships on the fringe of the star system detected a large number of vessels vectoring towards Asphodel at superluminal velocity. Signal probes hurtled in-system with the news just ahead of the impending fleet, and defenders primed their plasma banks and shield capacitors, waiting tensely for the first trans-dimensional disturbances to flare onto their tactical displays. High Charity’s powerful slipspace sensing arrays watched the hazy energy signals hurtle past the system’s outer planets, bypassing small colonies and outposts, its bearing undeniable. Finally, the fleet reached the open space between Asphodel’s large moon and the waiting vanguard…

For a split second, the void remained still.

Then, in a torrent of luminous, spherical pulses, the Fleet of Particular Justice spilled from the realm of the abstract into the real, sixty-five massive, polished hulls gleaming in the fast-fading light of their own emergence. They had not taken up position in opposition to one of the perimeter bands, or indeed even between them, as most of the waiting ship masters had anticipate. The Supreme Commander had brought his ships within nine thousand miles of the holy city, directly between High Charity’s two lines of defense.

A thousand pairs of eyes looked upon their holographic displays with surprise. Under different circumstances and with different warships, the move might have been the obvious one, bypassing the main line of defense and splitting it from the prize it was intended to protect. But the perimeter bands were still close to High Charity, almost within firing range, and the presence of three separate ship lines ensured that only a massively overwhelming number of enemy vessels could completely rob the station of its outer defenders. If anything, the ‘Falanamee’s fleet was in the worst position it could possibly be in; it was close to High Charity, true, but it could be enveloped from every side and firing vector within moments.

The apparent blunder gave some ships pause, but more experienced commanders amongst the combined fleet quickly adapted to the unexpected maneuver, and the trio of ship walls began to collapse in on the invading force. Wings of Seraph fighters skirted the perimeter of the newly-arrived battle group, their pilots observing carefully as the carriers within the Supreme Commander’s formation disgorged their own interceptor craft. As the Prophet’s soldiers closed in, the comparative disparity in firepower became quite obvious; little more than half its strength before the slaughter at Reach, the fleet was out-massed thrice by the defending armada. Despite its state of restoration, High Charity further tilted the odds from the rebellious force; even with its drives and shield grid down, its surface boasted thousands of independent plasma projectors, each of which was now aimed squarely at the new arrivals.

Elements of the Fleets of Far Clarity and Joyous Recompense were the first to reach Particular Justice, and swarmed the elliptical formation with dozens of frigates and light cruisers, which positioned themselves at every angle around the fleet, cutting off their every route of movement or escape. Behind, onboard their battlecruisers and hook-headed assault carriers, fleet masters and high zealots observed ‘Falanamee’s separatists carefully as their navigators positioned the command ships within firing range of the surrounded battle fleet. Many could have ordered their batteries to open fire immediately, but they hesitated. Some were reluctant to be the first to engage one of the Supreme Commander’s esteem and martial prowess. Others simply waited for him to make the first move.

It came swiftly, in the form of a wide-band broadcast from ‘Falanamee’s graceful flagship that found its way onto every operational transceiver and holographic feed from Asphodel’s surface to the most distant vanguard warship. Ship masters watched as a familiar Sangheili face resolved before them; pilots listened as they matched maneuvers with their opposing counterparts. Truth observed from his far throne.

“I am Teno ‘Falanamee, as you all must now surely know,” the Supreme Commander began. “Though I have come at the head of a battle fleet, crewed by warriors who will no longer stand the abuse and treachery that the Hierarchs have laid upon this galaxy, I am not here as a conqueror. I do not wish to fight you, my noble brothers, but I will if there is no other way to reach the High Prophets and end their corruption. I will not struggle for my convictions from afar, as they do. I, and all those who stand with me, will gladly give up our lives and our honor for the sake of the Sangheili and all those who still value the strength and unity that the Covenant once gave its people. We will bear your judgment, and face the wrath that the Prophet’s betrayal has brought upon us all.”

The transmission ended abruptly. All across the fleet, doubt and anger kindled anew, but the warships of High Charity were already in position. Their captains knew that if any of the Supreme Commander’s vessels attempted to breach the cordon, they would have to engage them, regardless of what they felt in their hearts. They were duty bound, if not to the Hierarchs, then to their crews.

Within the artificial planetoid’s armored bulk, Truth almost smiled. ‘Falanamee’s gambit had failed, and his heresy would soon be extinguished. Perhaps he had overestimated the tenacity of the Sangheili, after all.

A small holographic alert manifested itself in the air before him, subsidiary to the expansive representation of the space around High Charity, but defined by blaze of sudden luminosity. The Prophet banished the message with a hurried and distracted gesture, completely focused on his impending victory. The warning image did not return, but a few moments later, a Jiralhanae voice burst onto his ears from unseen speakers. Truth sneered in anger, and prepared to berate the officer for so insolently interrupting his reverie, but he stopped himself, only just catching the creature’s frantic tone. After listening to a few barked words, he pulled up the alert again and scanned it carefully.

Only then did he realize that the Supreme Commander’s promise of impending wrath was not mere bravado and metaphor. Before the High prophet, backed by the distant form of one of the system’s lifeless gas giants, the images of four, wedge-shaped warships shown in stark white and gray, their narrow prows aimed straight at the Holy Covenant’s heart.

I should've expected that, but I didn't nonetheless. Maybe you should stop topping yourself for the next few installments, just for the sake of your readers' health.

I did not see that coming. Excellent chapter, Ire.

The Heresy sets the stars on fire, and I have the feeling that the Prophets improved position in this AU won't help them much against ships possesing firepower 1-2 orders of magnitude above their own (When they can rely on only a third of their ships, despite the 42.5:1 odds that appear superficially).
Poor little apes .

And yet again an excellent chapter, you've been in excellent form as you approach your Grand Finale