Penny

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene squeezed Solae’s hand as they followed Tychon back through the darkening streets. The fisherman was unusually quiet, perhaps focused on his brush with disaster or simply feeling uncomfortable with his guests. The social strata of the Empire were prous at lower levels but grew more rigid the higher one climbed. The revelation of just how stratospherically high above him his daughters rescuers were made him uncomfortable and raised a wall between them, even if only in his own mind. For Rene it was a surprisingly bitter sensation, he knew that he was incredibly privileged to have grown up as he had, one among literal trillions, but everywhere he went he was out of place, cast out of his own class, yet unable to move into another. He squeezed Solae’s hand again though he couldn’t quite articulate the feeling.

It was nearly pitch black by the time the arrived back at Julia and Tychon’s home. The stars were out but the moon was nearly eclipsed and cast little light. What illumination there was came from fires that people had built in their yards, mostly with scavenged building materials, and the occasional generator powered illuminator. The people of San Roayo lived almost hand to mouth and few of them had been willing to spend money on luxuries like redundant generators when more immediate concerns. Rene wondered how long it would be before any organised disaster relief would reach San Roayo and other similarly devastated regions of Panopontus. Ordinarily relief would arrive within days, but with the rebellion interdicting shipping and controlling communications, it could be weeks or months. Duke Tan wouldn’t care about that of course, maybe most nobles wouldn’t care but for all the charges Rene might level against his father, her couldn’t imagine the Elder Du Quentain allowing his clients to suffer. Noblesse Oblige had been one of the few concepts in which his father had taken a personal interest in instructing his son and it pricked Rene’s soul to think of people being neglected by their rulers when they needed them the most. Rene didn’t know that much about Solae’s family, but he was willing to bet that she felt much the same way.

Julia let out an audible sigh of relief as Tychon and the two off-worlders entered the kitchen. She had been holding something beneath the level of the kitchen bench which Rene was willing to bet was a weapon of some sort, though perhaps not a firearm. Rushing across the room she hugged Tychon tightly around the waist. Rene saw the other man wince, as well he might given the fact that he had been shot with a needle stunner on two separate occasions. From the corner of a doorway Damaris peeked, apparently having been sent to bed but equally unwilling to miss out on the excitement. The chemical luminators were glowing more dimly than they had the first night, though the still provided ample light.

“Thank the seas you are alright!” Julia declared. Tychon sat down awkwardly and Julia peeled off his shirt despite his attempts to object. The front of his chest was a mass of purple bruises, punctuated by welts and shallow wounds where the needles had struck.

“What under the seas happened to you?” Julia demanded, but rushed off to retrieve a small medical kit before Tychon could explain. Once she returned she began to dab at the wounds with a pungent smelling antiseptic and Tychon told her the story. Julia’s face grew darker by the moment as she heard of Vitger attempt to kidnap Rene. Tychon had really be collateral damage, but that was of little comfort to Julia.

“And you Rene,” Julia demanded when she was done treating her husband.

“It really isn’t necessary…”

“What is it with men always downplaying their injuries,” Julia demanded of Solae crossly. Rene responded by lifting his shirt. His bruises already had the yellowish green colour that one expected after three or four days and the puncture wounds were already neatly scabbed over. The increased healing factors in his genes didn’t make him immune to harm but they did help him to recover faster than a normal man might. The extent of genetic manipulation used by the nobility was not common knowledge but rumors did circulate.

“Besides, I only got hit the once,” Rene explained as Julia set down her first aid kit and produced three bowls of cold food. The dish appeared to be some sort of mangrove root, sliced thin and then fried in fish oil. Rene found the texture to be mildly unpleasant but that still placed it far above a lot of things he had eaten in the past few years. Tychon produced a bottle of wine, apparently brewed from some sort of local berry and poured them all a glass. Rene accepted it politely, though what he truly wanted to talk to Solae privately, to discuss what she had learned and the people she had contacted while at the communications center. They had been on the defensive thus far, reacting to the moves of the Rebels rather than making any overt moves of their own. It felt good to think that they might be able to take the offensive soon, even if he wasn’t entirely sure what that would mean.

______________________

Trallius Major
Day 7

The war room was quiet save for the low background hum of live processors. Emperor Alexius Tan’s tall leather boots, deliberately military in style despite his own lack of service in that arena, rang on the marble floor as he paced. The war room had started life as a large ballroom, a fact that its blue marble floor and richly carved walls still attested to, but over a period of months it had become the nerve center of the Duke’s Rebellion. Powerful computer consoles were bolted to the floor, fed by conduits of fibre links that vanished into holes drilled into the priceless wall carvings, holographic projections shimmered in the air displaying data on a dozen different situations currently going on throughout the Eastern Cross. Traullius Major, as a sector capital, had dozens of better locations for such a task. Fleet command, one of the early targets of the rebels possessed a hundred times the facilities as did any one of the major administrative complexes, even the data centers in the palace were better suited from a hardware perspective. The problem was that each of those systems had been set up by Imperial Command and had, until recently, been operated by Imperial personnel.

When he had initially conceived of the idea of overthrowing the weak and pathetic government of which he was the titular head, Tan had realised that secrecy was essential. No facility that Imperial Intelligence knew of could be truly safe, and so, under the guise of a major remodel of his palace, he had converted this wing to serve as his base of operations. At the very center of the room stood a large cylinder of gold inlaid quartz. It sat on a pedestal from which cabling radiated like a spiders web to each of the consoles. The quartz pulsed with an inner light as trillions of quantum entangled particles spun and flickered in response to signals from its sister units all over the Stellar Empire. Only high level Imperial communications were sent via the PEA, instantly delivering the will of the Empress and her bureaucracy across billions of light years, orders for Fleet movements, Imperial decrees, Intelligence reports, and all of it completely impenetrable to Tan. He glowered at the PEA, willing the thing to give up its secrets.

“Your Highness.” Tan nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected words. Several of the technicians who had been studiously studding their screens while the Duke glowered, also started.

“I’ve told you not to sneak up on me General!” Tan snapped, irritable to be startled. General Antigony Bhast, commander and chief of the Dukes forces, smiled apologetically. At least, the Duke had learned to interpret it as a smile. Bhast was a veteran of a dozen campaigns and had risen through the ranks through her own drive and cunning, her eyes focused well beyond the horizon, perhaps on nothing in this universe. She was difficult to read, even for him.

“That is why I stomped over here like a cadet on parade My Lord, unfortunately you were too absorbed in your contemplation of the PEA to notice.” Tan grimaced and made a gesture of dismissal fluffing his mustache in a habitual gesture.

“Have you something to report or have you just decided to take up startling your Emperor as a hobby?” Tan demanded. Bhast smiled again, though the expression didn’t touch her cold eyes. She gestured at a nearby screen and it flickered to life, displaying footage of a starship streaking into the sky, streaming atmosphere through punctures in its hull the holographic overlay of a crosshair made it clear that it was gun camera footage. The ship vanished into the sky and the loop began again, starting with the ship rising from a plantation of some kind. A side bar appeared giving the ship name as ‘Bonaventure’ followed by class, registration number and various other pertinent datum.

Rather than give the general the satisfaction of asking what the footage was, Tan merely waited for Bhast to go on.

“This was shot on New Concordia. Three days ago,” Bhast said at last, making another gesture. Holographic portraits of two individuals flashed up one showing the familiar and beautiful face of Marquessa Solae Falia, the other an unfamiliar young man in drab battle dress.

“It seems the Marquessa fled the planet aboard the vessel, the pilot will be disciplined for firing on so high value a target,” Bhast explained in evident disapproval. Tan stared hungrily at the picture of the noblewoman, perhaps the one surviving person in the Eastern Cross who could unlock the PEA network. She had been so close and now…

Tan reached out a hand, pointing a finger at the portrait of the man. The system, a complex set of holographic cameras, interpreted the gesture and bought the portrait to a quarter mask of the screen. Rene Quentain. Private. Service Number 7203499. The holo was clear, taken from a military or immigration database rather than from live video. Tan frowned.

“A nobody,” he declared after a moment. Bhast nodded her head, though in acknowledgement of the words rather than agreement.

“We aren’t sure, Marine neo-nomyns being what they are, but analytics suggests some genetic enhancement. There is a Du Quentain family on Capella.”

Tan shook his head shrinking the image by closing his fingers.

“So he is what? Imperial Intelligence or something?” the Duke asked, enlarging the portrait of Solae.

“No way to know, not yet anyway. Perhaps a nobody in the right place at the right time,” Bhast said in a neutral tone of voice that declared she didn’t believe that for a second.

“Those idiots let her slip through their fingers,” Tan growled.

“I trust that…” Bhast was already nodding.

“Governor Cohen and his family have already been executed for crimes against the people,” the general confirmed.

“But his intelligence chief did provide me with this analysis.” The hologram shifted again to a star chart of the worlds in the immediate vicinity of Panopontus. Colored streaks of light mapped out the jump lanes across the starscape.

“They pulled satellite imagery of the ship coming down, a local tramp freighter taking slaves off book we think.” A grainy satellite image of the ship landing and a figure climbing up onto and slipping inside followed by what might have been muzzle flash.

“It didn’t have a chance to refuel before it lifted and we were able to sample its trail and calculate the ratio of the fuel burn and consumption rate.” A sphere appeared around New Concorida, representing the outer limit of the ships projected jump range. Six worlds light up with a bright red. Crelian, Trap 351, Pondak’s World, Panopontus, Jaseem’s Reach and Port St Croix. Tan frowned distastefully.

“So we know they have to be on one of these six worlds, but we don't know which. There was a Marine detachment on Trap 351 wasn’t there?” he asked his chief. The Eastern Cross was comprised of several hundred worlds, there was now reason of the Duke to be aware of every settlement, but he was familiar with most of the garrisons from the past weeks brutal extermination campaign.

“Yes, destroyed four days ago by Captain Gellan’s squadron, orbital strike,” Bhast agreed.

“Analysis suggests Trap 351 as the most likely choice, particularly given this Quentain’s presence, Port St Croix was the next most likely followed by Pondak’s World. The Intelligence chief on New Concordia dispatched vessels to all of the ports as soon as he could, though these were commendered merchantmen rather than warships of course.“

“Of course,” Tan responded sourly. He glared at the star chart trying to put himself in the heads of the fugitives. The obvious choice was to run to the nearest Imperial base. They clearly hadn’t done that or they would have been snapped up by the squadron at Trap 351. The next obvious choice was to make a run for the celestial center of the Stellar Empire, which meant passing through the jump nexi at Aquillia or Dunbarton. Such an attempt bordered on the suicidal as the ships had description of Falia and orders to stop any ships from passing through the system.

“I want units sent to all six worlds, pick teams of experts to hunt them down,” Tan declared decisively.

“Already done my Lord,” Bhast responded, but the man who called himself Emperor had already turned to resume staring into the impenetrable heart of the quartz, though in his mind he saw only a beautiful face framed by aurite hair, and all the power it represented.

Damned to the Depths

Calliope took the sarong in her hands and turned it over, fastening it around her waist to the obvious disappointment of several nearby crewmen. It wasn’t surprising that the Sultan knew how to give flattering gifts, that was a prerequisite of a ruler after all, but there was more going on her than met the eye and Calliope vastly prefered to be the player rather than the pawn.

A line of sailors was already forming at the gangplank of the Witch when Calliope came back on deck. In any port there was a certain amount of flotsam that washed up. Mostly they got too drunk and got left in port when their ships set sail, or the quarreled with their officers and got put ashore. Most of those queue looked to be of the sort, shabby men gone half native and living on the streets, desperate for a berth that would take them back to more civilized areas.

Though it was arguably her job, Calliope really wasn’t a seasoned enough seafarer to decide which, if any, of the men were a good fit for the ship. She was about to hand the task over to Sketti when he was done arranging the stowage of spices when a strange man caught her eye. He had the dark ebony complexion of a Southlander, perhaps from Punt or Kush but his face was covered with strange tattoos and ritual scars, a small bone, possibly from a bird pierced his nose and large ivory earing hung from his ears. He was talking animatedly to a small woman with curly hair and spectacles, who was dressed in a hodgepodge of northern garments and Arad Lund attire.

“Halvar,” Calliope called, the Northman looked around guiltily though he didn’t seem to be doing anything obviously nefarious. Perhaps it was his natural reaction to being called upon to work when he'd rather not be doing so.

“Start interviewing these people,” she ordered, making a negligent gesture at the line of hopeful sailors.

“We need two or three top men and a half dozen deckhands,” she told him.

“And a gunners mate if you can find anyone that knows which end of a cannon is which,” Grimey piped up from where she had been hidden behind one of the guns.

“And a gunners mate,” Calliope agreed equibbly. Halvar smacked his fist to his chest in what Calliope took to be a salute and strode away to do as he was bid. Markus could make the final determination once he was done with Sketti.

“You two!” Calliope called gesturing to the bone studded man and his female companion. Both of them came forward, the black man striding confidently, the woman following with a nervous expression. The black man’s teeth spread into a broad smile. They were stained a reddish brown perhaps from chewing something. She gestured them aboard and took a seat on a barrel. A sail had been rigged to provide some overhead cover and relief from the hot desert sun.

“Are you looking for passage?” she asked bluntly. The blackman nodded.

“I am X’pillae,” the man pronounced, clicking his tongue to make the first syllable of his name. He struck a pose, placing a fist on each hip. Despite the overblow theatrics of it he was an impressive man, though he clearly hadn’t been eating as much as he was used to.

“And you?” Calliope prodded the hereto silent woman.

“Mari,” the woman said, looking down at the ground and blushing. She was pretty in an understated sort of a way, though the spectacles made her look older than she was in truth.

“We aren’t taking on passengers,” Calliope informed them, assuming that they were interested in renting a cabin but X’pillae was shaking his head before she finished.

“No no dragon lady, X’pillae is not cargo, I have skills to sell!” he declared grandiloquently.

“Skills such as…” Calliope prompted.

“Among the Kinombe I was a great man,” he said with the same air of practiced theatrics.

“A speaker with spirits, a walker of dream, a…

“A witch-doctor?” Calliope interrupted impatiently. X’pillae looked a little put out by her interruption but he went on none the less.

“That is not the term the Kinombe would use, but yes, a witch doctor,” he admitted his accent making the last word sound like dock tar.

“Can you heal the sick?” she asked, intrigued in spite of herself. Instead of responding X’pillae drew a long dagger of some sort of polished bone from his waistband and drew it across his chest. Blood sprang from the gash immediately, flowing down his torso in red rivulets. The witch-doctor began to chant and gesticulate, rising to an undulating crescendo. Activity on the ship ceased as sailors watched the bizarre spectacle. WIth a final stamp of his foot X’pillae concluded whatever it was he was doing. To Calliope’s amazement the wound was closed as if it had never been. X’pillae brushed blood away with a contemptuous gesture. There wasn’t a single whiff of magic about it that Calliope could sense and she was impressed in spite of herself.

“We don’t have any spare cabins, but if you are still interested we will pay you as the ships doctor, a junior officers share. It wasn’t a particularly generous offer but X’pillae’s mouth split in a broad grin and he bowed from the waist. Calliope drew a single silver piece from her pocket and tossed it to the man who snatched it from the air and made it vanish with practiced ease. She shifted her gaze to the girl.

“And you? I suppose you are a mermaid?” Calliope asked sardonically. The girl blushed and looked at the deck.

“No Lady Calliope,” she half murmured. Calliope sat up straighter at the use of her name, while she wasn’t exactly keeping it a secret it was more than she expected a random stranger on the dockside to know. The woman’s blush deepened at the reaction her words had. She really was quite pretty now that Calliope had a closer look at her.

“We ah… we have met before,” Mari went on. Calliope raised an eyebrow, she certainly didn’t remember meeting the woman.

“I was a scribe with Captain Vennagas’ delegation, we stopped at Calaverde to water before we sailed south,” Mari added. Calliope nodded, Vennagas had been a madman from somewhere in Eastern Andreed, he had some bizarre notion about about a Fountain of Youth located in the jungles far to the south. It was the sort of nonsense that people with too much time on their hands and too many books sometimes came up with. He had asked Calliope for funds to underwrite his expedition, a request which she had politely declined though she had fed and entertained the Captain. An adventurous air was something which she had tried to cultivate, partly as a distraction for the mob and partly because it gave her access to intelligence she might otherwise have missed.

“Ah, I see, and how is the good Captain?” she asked.

“Dead,” Mari replied promptly, looking up to meet Calliope’s eyes through her thick glasses.

“We were swept far south by a hurricane and shipwrecked, the natives killed most of the survivors but I ran away into the jungle. I would have died too but the Kinombe found me and carried me away to their village.

“She was to be a sacrifice to the Rain God,” X’Pillae added helpfully. Calliope shook her head, not in negation, but because it was impossible to imagine the mousy young woman surviving to tell such a tale.

“I take it you aren't a sailor then? I don’t believe we have need of a scribe on…”

Mari fell to her knees and clasped her hands together.

“Please, please I can keep the books, I know accounts and I can learn anything else I need!” Calliope considered it. The Witch didn’t have a purser at present which might eventually become an issue. At present Sketti handled the pay and food, but he could probably use a hand given all the other duties he handled. Besides the girl really was quite pretty.

“I can pay you as a landsman and you can make space for bedding in the hold,” Calliope decided.

“Sketti will show you the ropes, you can work as his mate and as a lob-lolly boy for Mr X’Pillae,” she concluded. Lob-lolly boys, or girls in this case, were responsible for dragging the wounded from the deck, cleaning wounds, and generally helping out the ships doctor.

As Calliope was speaking a group of armed men mounted on camels made there way down towards the dock. They were dressed in the chainmail of the Sultan’s palace guard and they carried long lances across their saddles. Grimey stood up and looked at the men and then began to clean one of the small swivel guns that were used to repel boarders. The gun technically shouldn’t have been loaded, but judging by the care Grimey was showing with the flint lock, it almost certainly was. Her caution appeared to be needless however because the camel riders stopped twenty meters from the ship and the Sultan’s Vizer rode forward, carrying a roll of parchment with an elaborate seal.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Sayeeda looked around the cornucopia of death and destruction wondering for what purpose Canek had gathered such an arsenal. There must have been a couple of million credits here in small arms alone.

“Recruits have been harder to come by than weapons,” Canek explained, perhaps sensing her interest.

“Alot of men died in that ambush and well… I don’t fully trust a lot of the local talent,” he went on. Sayeeda picked up a submachine gun, not unlike the one she normally carried and was surprised to discover it was actually a plasma weapon. It was usually difficult to find a weapon smaller than a rifle, she fitted a patrol sling to it and began to gather reloads that were packaged in long slender tubes.

“I’m going to guess that finding this treasure ship is only step one?” she asked. Canek spread his hands wide in a theatrical guesture.

“Step one hundred and something probably. The goal is to raise enough men and hire enough ships to get to Seylonika,” Canek said, half shouting over the roar of drive fans. Behind them the tank she had seen the night before was spinning up its engines. Large patches of tempered steel had been welded over gaps that had been blown in the skirts. A mechanic watched through a commo helmet, probably monitoring heat to make sure that the repairs could hold the pressure needed to float a thirty ton vehicle.

“What’s on Seylonika,” Taya asked. The girl was toying with a compact breaching shotgun, the kind that vacuum commandos used when storming ships in deep space. Sayeeda didn’t think Taya or anyone else, could fire the weapon without being knocked on their ass, at least without a suit to adsorb the significant recoil.

“There was a general call put out about three months ago,” Canek said.

“Seylonika is the center of the Six World League, they are looking at hiring mercenaries in a big way, there is a new Prelate I guess who has some adventure in mind.”

“Ah,” Sayeeda said in understanding and then because it was obvious Taya didn’t, explained.

“There are a couple of different grades of mercenaries,” Sayeeda said.

“There are people like us, more or less freelance guns for hire, and then there are licensed mercs, like my old outfit.” Taya looked confused.

“Licensed by who?” she asked, apparently losing interest in the shotgun in favor of a sleek looking rocket gun of alien design.

“The Office of Special Actions,” Sayeeda said, “they started out as a Terran government beaura back in the days when Terra was a bigger deal that it is now. They used to be in charge of certifying that contractors that worked for the Terrans did what they say, verified TO&E, made sure contracts were handled properly.”

Sayeeda picked out a rad suit, a thin suit of flexible polymer with ionic inlays that would protect someone from the radiation they were likely to find near the computer projected crash site. Canek’s people had a sophisticated array of sensors also, though most of them were likely to suffer some level of interference from the polar radiation.

“But they don’t work for the Terrans now?” Taya asked.

“OSA is its own outfit now, they still do the same things verify mercenary contracts, make sure that the people doing the fighting do what they say and make sure that the people doing the paying pay up, but they work independently of Earth now. It’s too big a business for the Terrans to corner the market I suppose.”

The OSA was legendarily neutral, existing only to ensure that contracts were fulfilled as agreed. The arrangement suited everyone as it prevented mercenaries from deciding they would seize power on worlds they were contracted and it prevented locals from deciding that not paying or killing the mercenaries was cheaper than honoring their deals. In the event that one or another party didn’t live up to its word, they could and would levy their own mercenaries to address the problem. Junebug hadn’t had much direct interaction with OSA agents, but she knew from reputation, and horror stories, that the OSA wasn’t fucking around.

“Ok,” Taya said, obviously still confused.

“So what does this have to do with us, or with him anyway?” she asked gesturing to Canek with the barrel of the gun in a way that made Sayeeda queasy.

“There are two ways you can get a merc company registered with the OSA,” Sayeeda explained.

“One, you can go through a lengthy legal process that costs millions of credits, or you can be part of a General Call. That is when a large enough world needs more mercenaries than are likely to be available, the OSA will certify formed units that show up on a provisional basis, which they confirm when the first contract is fulfilled.”
General Calls were rare events, largely because hiring groups didn’t usually want to give their opponents warning that they were gathering large numbers of soldiers and give them time to prepare their own defences. For an aspiring Mercenary Captain though, there was no greater opportunity. Hundreds of small timers would rush to the recruiting area to try to win a position, though even once they got there they would need to impress the hiring party enough to get the contract.

“Right,” Canek chimed in, “And they will only sign of on a unit that is company sized or larger and properly equipped. I need enough money to raise and outfit at least a hundred pros, and get them to Seylonika in time, and the treasure ship is the only way I can see to make that happen. Once I have the cash, I’ll be able to gather enough recruits."

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

“Cydric!” Camilla cried in relief. It hadn’t truly crossed her mind that Cydric might be dead, not on a conscious level but seeing him again lifted a weight of her shoulders she hadn’t realised she had been carrying. There was no time for tearful reunions however.

“Abbiamo bisogno di tornare alla sala principale!” she exclaimed, forgetting in her haste to speak Reikspiel. Cydric, who could speak some Tilean, looked at her in confusion, the pace of her speech too rapid for his limited grasp on the tongue to handle.

“The main hall, with the windows,” she explained and stepped back out into the hallway. To her horror figures were emerging from one end of the dusty passageway. The undead knights clanked forward, rusted weapons raised. At the other end of the hallway the monster shambled awkwardly, the slash in its wing/arm mending visibility as Camilla watched.

“For Ulric!” Cydric roared and charged towards the beast thing, his bastard sword leveled like a spear. Camilla stepped towards the oncoming knights. Behind her she heard the crash of steel upon bony claws as Cydric grappled with the creature. She drew up her own blade in a duelists engarde position and advanced towards the horde intent on buy Cydric enough time to make an exit. The narrow confines of the corridor were both a blessing and a curse, on the one hand the wights could only come at her two at a time, on the other there wasn’t enough space for her to use her sword unencumbered.

The nearest of the creatures lunged at her, surprisingly quick given the languid pace of the things advance. She swept the point of the rusted sword aside, used the momentum to whirl the blade over her had, caught the hilt in both hands and hacked downwards, severing the bony arm halfway between wrist and elbow. The dead thing didn’t slow and she only narrowly managed to leap back before it caught her in a bony hand. Another wight tried to slash with a large two handed sword but the blade clanged off the stone wall. Camilla dipped and cut the feet out from under the lead creature, kicking it back into the ranks of its fellows, fouling their advance for a few seconds before talons reached forward and ripped the partially disarticulated knight to fragments of bone.

It was like trying to fight a landslide. She parried another blow and retreated back up the hallway towards the battle between Cydric and the monster, risking a glance over her shoulder to see how her lover was faring.

Damned to the Depths

“Assassins!” the Sultan fumed, glaring dangerously around the audience chamber. The sun was already rising and the heat was beginning to warm the desert air, even in the cool well watered chamber. Calliope and Markus stood grim faced before the body of the hired killer, which had been carried to the room for the Sultan to view. Achmed stood beside his father, his face a mask of confusion and anger.

“They murdered the princess Yasmina,’ Achmed said in a tight voice. The Sultan whirled on the prince, his gold white robes whipping like a pennant. The girls body had been taken to the embalmers so that it could be prepared for the burial.

“And what was my son and his bride to be doing in the guest wing in the middle of the night?” the Sultan demanded in a dark tone. Achmed, his mind addled by the spell Calliope had placed upon him, could only stammer.

“And what do you two know of this!” the Sultan demanded, spinning to face the two foreigners to the evident relief of Achmed. Calliope spread her hands wide in a gesture of helplessness. She was dressed in a sheer top of black fabric that covered her breasts and trailed a gossamer thin sheen of gossamer silk down over her midriff, shading but not concealing her bare midriff. A similar skirt duplicated the effect on her legs, although a long slash provided more freedom of movement than might otherwise be expected. The whole ensemble was ruined by the sword belt she wore buckled around her hips but she was in no mood to go without a weapon.

“We were in Calli’s chamber,” Markus supplied, “we heard a scream and rushed back to my room.”

“The assassin, must have been going for the prince, but his bride to be threw herself in front of the knife,” Calliope added helpfully. Achmed’s jaw worked, he clearly remembered hiring the assassin but he couldn’t contradict the story, the memories Calliope had carefully inserted into his mind matched the story they were telling.

“The princess collapsed into his arms and bore him back so that he cracked his head on the floor,” Calliope went on. In actual fact Markus had kicked him in the head, an act he had taken all together too much pleasure in, but they had needed a bruise to explain what happened.

“First my son is kidnapped by pirates, next he is targeted by an assassin. What am I to make of it?” the Sultan demanded. At that exact moment the doors swung open and the Vizer hurried in. He cast as look around the gathering, his sly eyes suspicious. Calliope didn’t even want to guess what angle the Vizer might try to work here.

“Great Sultan, perhaps we ought discuss this with your son in private?” he suggested, casting an unreadable look at the two pirates.

“Yes, yes…” the Sultan agreed. He fixed Markus with a penetrating look.

“I am certain you have the bussiness of your ship to occupy you Captain,” the fat monarch clapped his hands together and two armored soldiers carried over a small chest. They threw back the lid to reveal sparkling gold and silver coin, stamped with the likeness of the Sultan on one side and the symbol of Harashyim on the other.

“In gratitude for your services thus far,” the Sultand declared. Calliope and Markus bowed and stepped forward to collect the chest.

“Thus far?” Calliope asked as they exited the chamber. She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene slipped into the office, leaving Tychon to finish the last few tasks of loading the fuel. Both men were suffering the after affects of the stunner needles but work was as good as rest for dealing with the occasional after spasms of the neural disruptor darts. Genetic enhancement would help Rene’s expensive physiology deal with the trauma, Tychon would have to rely on his natural toughness alone, which, come to think of it was probably more than enough.

He crossed the room in a rush and wrapped his arms around Solae, pulling her to him and pressing his lips to hers in a passionate kiss. The hood fell down releasing her hair like cascade of liquid gold and undoing all the work she had done to conceal it. The spectre of disaster flitted through Rene’s mind as it imagined different possible endings to today’s events. A dart might have stopped his heart if Vitger had gotten unlucky, Solae might have come to the warehouse with him instead of going to the communications center and been taken. A dozen other equally ruinous variations, all of which ended with Solae being handed over to the rebels or killed.

Although he knew both from his training and experience that no one could be everywhere and do everything, he swore to himself that he wouldn’t let such a lapse in judgement happen again. He would get her to safety whatever the cost. After a few moments he loosened his grip on her, though he didn’t let her go completely.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, meaning more than the disruption to her hair, though meaning that also. His heart hurt with love for her and with fear for her at the same time, a fear that he never felt for his own life. He began to run his fingers through her hair, gathering it back up into her hood, the simple gesture surprisingly intimate even in such surroundings.

From outside came the sharp hiss of high pressure hoses disconnecting as Tychon worked. Rene realised that his body was trembling slightly with reaction. Adrenaline that hadn’t been burned off churned his stomach and made him feel queasy. Stars above, he hoped whatever information Solae had retrieved from the communications center would yield a solution. Rene was dedicated both to his duty and to the Stellar Empire as a whole, but for the first time he found himself wondering if maybe it wouldn’t be better to find some deserted world and wait out the storm, rather than risk the life of the woman he loved.

Which setting would you like to see more of in Roleplays?

Pulp - Indiana Jones type stuff or 50s/60s sci-fi aesthetic
Lovecraftian Horror
Picaresque fantasy

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

The black water closed over Camilla head. Diving blindly she felt her way along the rock face, seeking the source of the current that rippled the pool. Twice she came up for air before she found what she was looking for. With one hand holding her sheathed elven blade tight against her leg she kicked powerfully pushng herself into the opening. The current swept her forward and she prayed to Ranald that the tunnel never grew too narrow for her to pass. In theory the opening should only grow wider, otherwise the water would have backed up and submerged the cavern, but the only way she would find out she was wrong was if she were stuck between the rocks to drown, her body never t be recovered. Her vision began to pulse red as the air she had gulped down was exhausted. Desperately her hands scrambled across the submerged stone roof. At the last possible moment she found an opening an her hand reached into empty air. Desperately she propelled herself upwards and gasped at the stale subterranean air.

Camilla emerged into a tight circular shaft, regular enough that she could feel the tool marks. It was a well shaft, twenty or thirty feet deep. Above her dim light filtered down. Shivering and soaking wet, she pushed herself into the shaft pressing against each side and working her way up in a burglar’s assent. Inch by inch she worked her way up the shaft until finally she grasped the rim of worked stones and pulled herself over the lip.

The room around her was as dilapidated as the rest of the inner keep. Ancient jars stood on worm eaten shelves or lay in fragments on the floor when the timbers had rotted away. Rats scampered out of sight as she heaved herself to her feet. Light filtered down from a doorway above at the top of a set of shallow stone steps. She had to assume she was in a basement, perhaps on a level with the crypt Cydric had dropped them into. She needed to find him and soon.

Water pooled on the steps as she climbed them, peering through the doorway. Beyond her a large kitchen stood, long abandoned. A great oven overflowing with ashes sat at one end and shelves and cabinets lined the walls. Several rusted knives lay on a central work table and verdigris copper pots hung from the ceiling beside spiderweb encrusted herbs and mummified garlic ropes. The was movement at a doorway at the far and and a large form moved passed the door. Camilla froze in place, certain that despite the similarity in size the thing that had passed was not Cydric. It stepped back into the doorway and turned to face her, baleful eyes glowing down at her.

It struck like a thunderbolt, half leaping half flying from its elevated position. Camilla shouted and whipped her elven blade free, spinning aside and fetching the thing a slash across the ribs as it tumbled past her in a tumult of rusty iron cutlery. It was a great anthropomorphic bat, or perhaps a combination of a bat and a wolf, with leathery wings stretched between its forearms and its hips. Great bony pinions dug into the table, peeling up the iron hard oak like a craftsman chisel as it worked the check its momentum. Camilla sprang up onto the table avoiding a strike ot the things claws that would have taken her off at the knees. It leapt up behind her, lighting fast for its size. Camilla kicked a pot at it with her booted foot. It swatted the junk unconsciously and she thrust into the sinew of its shoulder, twisting and ripping the weapon free before the creature could twist and disarm her. It howled as the elven steel cut into it, black blood dripping sluggishly from the wound.

It launched itself at her again and Camilla leaped into the air, catching one of the roof timbers as it crashed past beneath her, colliding with the oven at the end of the room. The termite eaten timber gave way beneath her fingernails and she let it go and fell onto the table, landing gracefully and twisting to face back towards her attacker. With a beasital howl it launched itself at her a third time. Camilla sidestepped so that it flew into the doorway down to the well, its pinions struck out to catch the lintel but Camilla, having anticipated the response was already swinging her sword down with all her strength. The elven steel bit deep into its lower arm, although even the finest craftsmanship of the Eldest race couldn’t quite sever the sinewy member. The creature screamed in a rage loud enough to be physically painful and its limb gave out, tumbling into the lower room. Camilla didn’t wait for it to recover, instead she ran along the table, leaped to the far door and bolted, hoping to lose the thing or at least find a more advantageous battleground.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

Camilla looked around the crypts in confusion. Large sarcophagi lay in sconces dug into the walls, their sides graven with chivalric scenes of battle and the hunt. Cobwebs draped the caskets in gossamer sheets of silk, though, thankfully, Camilla didn’t see any of the webs progenitors. A slight breeze stirred the strands and Camilla turned towards the source of the unseen airflow.

“This way,” she declared, stepping through the nearest archway. The heavy stone arches stretched off in both directions like rib bones of a vast serpent. Bones crunched underfoot from where something had overturned stone ossuaries. The bones were yellowed with age and splintered by blows as though to get a the marrow, though Camilla couldn’t imagine remains so ancient retaining any such thing. At least these ancient Knights had been spared the vile necromancy that had dragged their more recent brethren.

“There has to be a way…” Camilla’s words trailed off in a scream as something black and massive smashed into her sending her sprawling into a side passage. She skidded across the slick stone, her left hand grasping for some hand hold as her right held onto her rapier in a death grip. A bestial roar mingled with Cydric’s battle cry and the hiss of a blade slicing the air. With a strangled oath she felt the ground give way beneath her as she went over the edge of a pit, plunging deeper into the darkness. She had just enough time to scream before she splashed into icy water. Instinctively she held her breath and kicked her feet, driving herself back above the surface, though it was so black she could see nothing. The current sucked her along at the speed of a brisk walk. Rocks scratched at her skin and she thrust an arm out in front of her incase of an unseen object.

“Myrmidia’s bleeding…” she tumbled down a shallow decline and splashed into another pool. To her surprise she found that there was light here. Veins of quartz in the wall glowed with lumience from some unknown source. She was in a large pool that was fed from the stream that had swept her along. Kicking and splashing she crawled ashore on a pebbled beach. The room was a subterranean grotto that had been eroded around the pool. The light that suffused the place was pale and pure. Camilla watched it in fascination as the light shifted through the spectrum at some slow random progression.

“Cydric!” she yelled, but the roar of the water and the echoes of her own voice were all that returned to her. Glancing around she noticed a fissure in the rock. Pushing herself to her feet she walked to the opening and squeezed through. On the other side she found a small room light by the same crystalline light. A skeleton, partially articulated but covered with fungus was huddled in a corner. The body was wearing rusted armor but the gauntlets and pauldrons were missing. Writing was scratched onto the wall. Camilla leaned close and read the ancient Brettonian. And then she understood.

Damned to the Depths

Calliope stood in the doorway with her sword drawn, her eyes flicked down to the Captain’s nakedness and then across to the bodies that lay on the bed. She arched an interrogative eyebrow as Markus finally manage to get his trousers up.

“Hmmm,” she commented neutrally before shooting her sword home into its scabbard.

“This is going to be a problem,” she opined. A clatter of wood upon wood out in the courtyard took her across the grizzly scene to peer out through the large arabesque window that looked out over a small balcony. In the moonlight courtyard a figure could be seen creeping across the courtyard in a posture of stealth so dramatic as to actively call more attention than simply walking would have done.

“It’s Achmed,” Calliope hissed, drawing back from the window in chagrin. Markus didn’t panic, no one who spent their life upon the ocean panicked at bad news but his eyes widened. Being the guest of the Sultan wouldn’t save them if it was discovered they had apparently murdered his bride to be. Calliope wasn’t certain what had occured but brutal though he was she doubted Markus was the sort of man to murder a woman. Had the assassin been with her? Waiting for a moment to strike when Markus’ guard was down? Or had he been sent to follow her and just gotten unlucky. It hardly mattered right at this moment. There was no chance they could get to the Witch and get her to sea if the crime was discovered, even assuming they could round up the crew, who, if Calliope was any judge, would need to be roused from every bar and brothel in Dalib Sahara.

“Ok,” she said, thinking rapidly. The first step was to get rid of the bodies, no the first step was to side track Acmed.

“I’ll see what I can do to take care of the Prince,” she said crossing back over the room and slipping out the door. She heard the door bolt behind her as Markus locked it from the inside. What they were going to do with two bodies she had no idea but that was a problem for Markus, or for later. Hastily she unbuckled her weapons and dropped them into a large ceramic amphorae. The pots contained water and the condensing effect cooled the inside of the stone structure, then she put on a deliberately dreamy expression and began to saunter down the hallway.

Achmed stepped around a corner so suddenly that Calliope nearly ran into him, as it was she pirroutted gracefully, a dreamy giggle bubbling from her lips.

“Lady Calliope?” Acmed gasped, straightening to his full, not particularly impressive, height. Calliope giggled again and began to circle Acmed dreamily.

“My you are handsome,” she breathed, forcing her eyes to dilate as though she had been partaking of opa or some other mind altering drug. She giggled again, trailing a finger over Acmed’s shoulder as she circled him like a stalking cat. Acmed laughed an oily laugh.

“I knew you couldn’t resist me,” he said with false confidence, “I could see it in your eyes at the feast.” Calliope resisted the urge to snicker with a heroic effort.

“Mmmmm, did you come to see me?” she purred, pressing her lips close to Achmed’s ear. The prince nodded eagerly, trying to reach for her but she continued to circle, slipping out of his grip.

“Come,” she breathed, taking him by the hand and leading him towards her chambers. Acmed trailed eagerly along behind her as she pulled him through the door and closed it behind her, needlessly loudly so that Markus would hear it, then shot the bolt closed.

“Do you need to lock the door…” Acmed began, but Calliope crossed the floor and kissed him, cutting of the words. Acmed stiffened and then returned the kiss inexpertly. Calliope wondered if a downside of having harem girls is that they told you that everything you did was wonderful. With the same slow dreamy movement she had been using she began to undress him, sliding off his turban and slipping a golden medallion over his head. His hands moved over her back, unfastening the silken cloth and freeing her breasts, his fingers rising to caress them.

“Mmm,” Calliope moaned and pushed Achmed back onto the bed. He fell upon the silken sheets, eyes wide and excited.

“Basos,” Calliope muttered. There was a flicker of arcane power and the prince’s eyes glazed and he toppled forward onto his face. Sleeping spells were tricky if your opponent was wary, but if their guard was down they could be tremendously effective. She lay the medallion, doubtlessly a ward that would have prevented just such an attack down on the bed by the Prince, then quickly unlocked the door and hurried back out to see what Markus had concocted.