[h3]A New Challenger Approaches[/h3]
[sub]Featuring Crown Prince Raaid Ghani al-Karim and Aisha[/sub]

A robed and hooded figure hurried through the winding streets of the Burj Al-Muqaddas, every step taken furtively, every new street a potential threat. They were flanked by five others, all each clad in the same lightweight robes that concealed every inch of their persons from any nosey passers-by. Over the course of the past hour, they had meticulously descended nearly a hundred and fifty stories of the arcology's colossal construction, slowly but surely making their way towards a fortress that could be their salvation.

The Al-Muqaddas spaceport was an unsightly mark on what was otherwise an elegantly designed city. Al-Muqaddas had been erected by Al-Nizam as their new capital almost a century ago now, a far cry from the older arcologies set up by the first colonists. While they had incorporated their spaceports into the heart of the city, al-Nizam could never suffer their 'perfect city' to have to endure the booms of suborbs or the roar of full thrusters being a part of the daily tapestry of life. 

Not that it mattered. Six figures became three - half of the bodyguards peeling away from their charge to foray ahead. There was the sound of struggle, the wet thump of bodies falling to the floor, and then they were through the outer perimeter, scurrying towards a small ship that had been left in one of the colossal repair bays, placed there by an inside man who saw the truth of this world.

Throwing off his robes, crown prince Raaid al-Karim dashed to the controls of the small vessel, then praised whomever may be listening. They had been promised a warm engine, and here it was - fully fuelled and looking like it had only stopped idling a few minutes ago. It thrummed back to life easily - the prince's hands shifting across switches and gauges like a conductor before a symphony. Once, long ago, a royal could get away with being indolent and letting others do their job for them. But he had been born an exile. For him, 'jihad,' was not some declaration made by soft-skinned mullahs, it was his life.

"My prince." One of his guards turned to him, an eye still on the small camera built into a wrist-mounted screen. "We thought we would have five minutes but... It looks as if they are coming sooner. We need to go. Aisha!" He called out to another one of the guards. "Keep the prince safe. We'll give you as much time as you can."

There was a brief moment of pause as the four guards braced themselves. This was a death wish, and they all knew it. There would be no way out of the port once the prince's craft had gone. Then, as one, they reached for the heavier, unsilenced weapons that had laid dormant during their trip across the Burj al-Muqaddas. Gunmetal gleaming in the moonlight, they pushed their way out the door, leaving the prince to turn back to the controls, and, with a grunt, slam the button to seal the doors. 

"What can I do." Aisha turned to look at the young man, her hands balled into tight fists. 

"Sit there. Strap in. If I tell you to do something, [i]do it.[/i] A craft like this is meant for short jaunts... Not whatever awaits us up there." The bodyguard nodded, just as the first crackle of gunfire made its way to the craft.

Raaid's knuckles were as pale as snow as he pushed the engine to taxi out of the repair dome. Lights winked on - first red, then amber, and finally green as the craft prepared itself to soar into the sky, and then beyond. Outside, where the group had entered, the gunfire intensified. The prince forced himself to filter out the sounds as they changed from gunfight to massacre. The thump of a grenade launcher, the scream as one of his guards was cut down. "Thirty seconds..." He tapped the readout as if it would cause time to run faster.

"Twenty..." The last of the gunfire abruptly cut off. The guards would be storming towards them now.

"Fifteen..." He eased the throttle further forwards, the craft picking up more and more speed.

"Ten seconds, fuck this, switching to lift. Hit that switch there." He gestured over, Aisha following his order instinctively. As soon as she did, the entire craft lurched uncomfortably, an awful scraping sound coming from the hull as the engines only barely pulled them up in time. 

"Five..." Masked and armed figures burst through the doors and into the repair dome behind them. 

"Too late," Raaid said with a grimace, slamming the throttle forwards as he did. The craft roared, shuddering a little as a few useless shots were tossed its way, the prince heaving on the controls to swing it clear of the spaceport's main operating zones. The radio lit up, surprised traffic control and furious security yelling over each other, asking for clearance, demanding that he land, but he paid no attention. They could make it to orbit in five minutes. Craft could be scrambled before that. All he could do was fly like he had never flown before, and pray that that would be enough.

[hr]

"New Gateway reading." A bored-looking desk jockey swivelled around in the cramped offices that made up the Gran Republic's Sol reading post. "Tiny. Fucked to hell and back too, looks like it's spinning out." He turned back to the screen. "Fuck me, three more just spat out as well. Doesn't match anything we know. Even more new folk-"

An all-frequency broadcast blared out throughout Sol. It was in Arabic, but even those who didn't speak the language could understand the urgency of the words.

[b]"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. I am Crown Prince Raaid Ghani al-Karim, of the Free Dinnin Confederacy. I am requesting urgent..."[/b] The message was interrupted by a series of thuds and the sound of metal grinding against metal. Then the voice came back, sounding even more panicked. [b]"I am requesting [i]immediate[/i] refuge by any that can provide it. Please, if anyone can hear me, mayday, mayday, [i]mayday!"[/i][/b]