Penny

Via Stellarum

Kyra came to a stop beside an ancient and rotting tree. The bark was covered with a patchy fungus that phosporessed very slightly. A few of the trees still sprouted sickly looking leaves, hard curled things which looked distinctly unhealthy, but these were in the definite minority. In the distance the rumble of heavy guns could still be heard and the sky flashed blue white as with distant lightning. Each time the sky flashed there was a soft hissing sound in the communication beads they wore as the RF squelch of plasma discharge cut across the spectrum.

From what little briefing anyone had bothered to give her, she had gathered that this operation was supposed to be a surprise landing against minimal opposition. If that had been the case, then the element of surprise had been well and truly lost. Alekhine IV was deep inside Corporate space, it wasn't some frontier world that needed an extensive garrison to protect it. That meant that the Corporates had the jump not just tactically but strategically, none of which boded well for the surprise assault that the League had planned.

“My rifle…” Kyra began but before she could finish the sentence one of the other soldiers pressed one of the cheap electromotive slug throwers into her hands. The telltale glowed green indicating that the weapon was live. Kyra opened her mouth to ask where it had come from before realising that it must have been taken from one of the fallen troops from O’Byrne’s dropship.

“I’m Kyra, Kyra Sloane,” she said with a sweep of her head to take in the small group of soldiers. All of them were equipped as she was, simple grey green fatigues with plastic/ceramic body armor stenciled with the unit number. She thought she recognised some of them from their abbreviated basic training but couldn’t be sure.

“Sloane?” the soldier who had passed her the rifle asked cocking an eyebrow.

“You aren’t that fucking Jayser we heard about are you?” before she could respond he grabbed her head and wrenched it sideways, revealing a small metallic implant just behind her left ear. Jayser was a slang term for a small minority of people born with a genetic abnormality that affected their pineal gland. Janikov’s Sarcoma , or J syndrome, had been unknown before humans were exposed to the hostile environment of jump space, the interstitial void between the infinite bubbles of the multiverse. Most fetus that developed J syndrome spontaneously aborted early on in their development, but those that survived exhibited a number of strange mental abilities, low level telepathy and minor telekinesis as well as debilitating migraines. Most major world in the League required prenatal screening and abortions when the markers for the conditions were found. Those that made it to adulthood with the condition were implanted with damping chips to suppress their abilities and, more often than not, ‘enlisted’ into volunteer units. Although the kind of things a Jayser could do were very limited, wild stories circulated among the gullible ensuring that prejudice ran high,

Kyra drove her knee up into the soldiers groin sending him staggering back. He cried out in shock and began to lift his weapon, but before he could bring it to bear, she drove the stock of her newly unlocked rifle into the side of his helmet sending him staggering back against a tree trunk. She swung the weapon to her shoulder and sighted down the barrel at his chest. The electromagnetic accelerators whined slightly as the weapon came to its read status.

“Yes I’m the one you heard about,” she growled through clenched teeth. The metallic implant buzzed slightly at her hig

“And if that is a problem for you, I can make sure that you don’t have any problems to worry about every again.”

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

Despite the insistance of of her helmet chronometer that it had only been four days, Junebug was certain it had been a hundred years when they finally stumbled in to the upper reaches of a canyon whose covering of scrubby vegetation marked the passage of an underground river. Junebug’s skin was burnt to a shade of bronze that would have done her desert dwelling Terran ancestors proud. Neil and Taya, fairer and having spent less time out in the elements, were not faring so well, both were badly sunburned despite their efforts to keep covered. Saxon, surprisingly, had fared the best of them all. Sayeeda had always associated the Hex with jungles in her mind, but the way his scales had grown dull suggested that their native habitat might as likely be desert as wetland. He didn’t complain of thirst or speak much other than level the occasional threat at Neil but with the exception of a slight sluggishness to the nictitating membranes which served as his eyelids, did not seem much the worse for wear.
They had travelled at night seeking shelter and sleep during the day, following a steady course south easterly to the nearest chartered settlement. The protein rations Sayeeda had been carrying had kept them from starving though all, save perhaps Saxon, were suffering from hunger pains from the meager rations. The concentrated protein was enough to keep them moving but they were neither filling nor satisfying. Water was a much more pressing concern, Junebug’s armor held a reclaimer unit which was able to process her sweat and what little moisture there was in the aird air into potable water but it was still little more than a cup a day and their bodies were beginning to suffer from the dehydration.

As they stumbled down the side of the canyon the air cooled and moistened significantly and they humidity counter displayed in Junebugs helmet climbed from <1% up to a modest 15 percent. The reclaimer clicked quietly as its workload increased. Fortunately the salvagers had either believed them dead or lost their trail as no pursuit had followed them. Junebug suspected that the answer to that lay in the strange method of their escape, the temporal distortion that had carried them out of the alien vessel had left her clock unaltered, but she suspected that they had traveled some time, perhaps a day or two into the future and that attempts to find them had already failed.

They moved down the canyon at a shuffling walk until, rounding a corner, they found themselves confronted by a group of houses built into the canyon wall and a sprawl of greenery surrounding a metal capped wellhead. Men in desert garb started at the sight of them and several disappeared into their houses to return a moment later carrying antiquated looking long arms. Sayeeda held her hand up in a gesture of friendship, though her other hand held the receiver of her stolen rifle. Despite the weight of the weapon she had clung to it throughout the arduous trek. A soldier didn’t give up her weapon any more than she threw away her rations or took of her helmet in vacuum.

“We need to passage to the spaceport,” she croaked in response to a demand to know who she was.

It cost them their remaining rations and both Sayeeda and Taya’s side arms, but two hours later they were arriving on the outskirts of the city, all of them riding in the back of a large air cushion truck that served as the villages primary conveyance. It was nearly nightfall and the city was already falling into it’s strangely divided routine. The locals were returning to their homes while the spacers and traders were heading out to the various bars and dives that ringed the spaceport.

The Highlander sat where they had left it, though there were a few disappointed vendors who had clearly noticed that it had been several days since anyone approached the ship and perhaps had been hoping that they might pick the vessel over if its owners were dead. Sayeeda stepped up to the ramp and put in her code, lowing the access ramp to the sandstone floor. They marched up the stairs and into the cool interior of the ship intent on food, water and, at least in Junebug’s case, a shower. After that they would have to discuss how they were planning to get off this rock but Junebug couldn’t force her tired brain to grapple with that right at the moment.

“Lonny?” Neil asked, and it wasn’t until after he spoke that a vague sense of unease crystalized in Junebugs mind. Behind her she heard the soft click of a weapon being unsafed. Instinctively her own hand slid down to her rifle but before she could react a feminine voice spoke from behind her.

“Please, I don’t mean you any harm.” Junebug turned slowly. Stepping out from behind a bulkhead was a beautiful woman. Though she was dressed in a set of Neil’s coveralls her body still managed to look lush and inviting, her face might have been a computer generated picture of beauty with full pouting lips and blond hair with natural curls that many women would have spent a weeks salary at a salon to acquire. In her hand was four barreled flechette pistol, a weapon intended for use inside the ship where heavier weapons might smash systems and damage electronics. The energized darts were still plenty deadly however.

“Your the woman from the palace,” Junebug said, her mouth voicing the thought before her exhausted mind was truly aware of it. She remembered the woman the Pasha had held at gunpoint, though she couldn’t for the life of her think of a reason she had come here.

“Please dont,” the woman implored desperately. Junebug realised that her hands had continued their migration to her weapon and she deliberately lifted them away from the slung rifle.

“I came here for help,” she confessed, the pistol wavering in her hands.

“Maybe put the gun down then?” Junebug suggested, and to her considerable relief the woman lowered the pistol.

“Who are you?” Taya asked, irritably.

“My name is Indra Hawkwood. I am the daughter of the Primate of Cylonieka,” she said, the tone clearly suggesting that the information should mean something to the group. Sayeeda glanced sideways at Neil who shrugged.

“Ok Miss Hawkwood,” Junebug said with all the civility she could manage.

“Why did you break into our ship and point a gun at us if you need our help. I dont know how things are done on Cylon… wherever…”

The woman was already shaking her head, her beautiful face a mask of fear and dispair.

“You don’t understand,” she blurted, “the pasha and his men are looking for me, I thought you might be them!”

Neil snorted and Junebug smiled.

“Trust me lady, the Pasha isn’t looking for anyone unless he is doing it from beyond the grave,” Junebug told her with a tired smile but the woman shook her head emphatically.

“Not the old Pasha, the new one. Sven or whatever he calls himself, he wants to keep me as a hostage! I’ve been hiding here for days hoping you would come back.”

Sayeeda’s face blanked and Neil swore quietly. Taya reached out and touched the ramp control. It began to retract, sealing off the noise of the starport outside.

“Well shit,” Neil observed.

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Stars formed and broke apart in Rene’s mind. Psychologists claimed that jumps had no effect on the minds of those who undertook them but spacers knew better. Some people enjoyed a deep dreamless while in the jump, others, less fortunate, suffered vivid nightmares. Rene’s mind spun queasily through a series of disconnected thoughts and images. The Crystal Palace on Cappela grew out of the void like an organic thing before morphing into flare bursting over a training ground on Kappa Virgio. The muzzle flashes of distant machine guns spun into the brilliant blonde of Solae’s hair as she rose, nymphlike from a pool of water as black as night. At some level he realised he was sleeping but days of operating at a hundred and fifty percent combined with the linger effect of the stun needles conspired to prevent him from waking.

The jump phantoms spun outwards in a web mapping the stars in an outward spiral spreading into the Eastern Cross. The Bonaventure sailed between the stars as a dark figure in the regalia of an Imperial Duke reached out towards vessel, snatching at it with fingers the size of starships. Rene swatted at the fingers furiously trying his best to keep the hand from closing around Solae. No matter how quickly he smote them down another finger was always there closing off their means of escape. In the background his father glowered at him, judging his performance with grim disapproval as Gisella Chastain stood behind him sharpening a long knife. Mercedez Vilatre sat atop her throne, Ameilia’s mutilated body lay before her as she arched an inquiring eyebrow at Rene, he couldn’t see it but he felt the sword of damocles hanging over his neck. Solae stood by the shoulder of the Empress, her face vaguely disappointed.

The sudden burst of deceleration jolted Rene awake. He came to his feet unsteadily his hand grasping for a weapon for a moment before the disorientation passed. The deck of the Bonaventure vibrated as the engines began the long burn to bleed off the excess velocity of the jump. A tingling shimmer ran through Rene’s body as the subatomic particles resumed their normal configurations. The jump drives whined quietly as they finished their work. Rene grabbed the hatch coming to steady himself and looked around the hold. The results of Solae’s work loomed before him, his eyes flicked over the pictures, articles and holograms. For a moment he hesitated wanting to try and take in what, if anything, she had discovered but there were other more pressing concerns.

Rene pushed his way forward into the cockpit where Solae sat, he squeezed her shoulder and leaned forward to kiss her before sliding into his chair beside her. She glanced up him with concern in her eyes and he tried to smile comfortingly, his fingers brushing the dressing on his shoulder. It occurred to him that she had removed his shirt to treat his wounds, and that it wasn’t exactly professional attire. The thought of being professional aboard a stolen ship as they flew towards a contested planet filled with people who would turn them over to their enemies in a heartbeat made his smile even broader.

“I’m ok,” he told the woman he loved.

“Thanks to you,” he expanded as he turned his eyes to the sensor readouts for his first look at Zatis.

“What have we got?”

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene seized Solae’s hand and squeezed grateful for the comfort implicit in the offer. His mind raced with the potential implications of what they had just learned. Had someone in the Chastain family arranged his disgrace to forge a marriage alliance with his father. On the face of it, this seemed an insane risk as unless it were pulled off perfectly, the vengeance of the Empress would be swift and terrible. Young Mercedez Vilantre was, but having grown up watching people endure the mad whims of her father, she made rather a point of dealing out justice with a firm hand. If it came out that a noble family had conspired in the murder of a handmaiden, they might be stripped of titles, their property seized and the ring leaders imprisoned and executed.

A failing noble family would gain much from an alliance with the Du Quentains, whose holdings, Rene knew, were vast. Though neither Alric nor his father had been particularly focused on the acquisition of wealth, the Du Quentains enjoyed hundreds of lucrative imperial monopolies, held tax rights on several of the core worlds of the Empire and even had their own colonies on the Western Marches, many of which were already high profitable. That kind of old money, focused as it was in a single bloodline was beyond that even most nobles could imagine. Rene’s father and grandfather were taciturn men, with no interest in showing off their wealth and power as many of their peers did, but it wasn’t exactly a secret either.

“It makes sense that the Chastains would want a marriage connection,” Rene said slowly, realising only after he spoke that he had been silent for long minutes.

“But why would my father agree to it and why so soon after my arrest? He would have had to have..” Rene trailed off, the kernel of an idea growing in his mind, though not yet developed to a point he could articulate it. The Empress’s Justice. Rene had always assumed that his father had played a role in allowing him to escape custody long enough to enlist in the marines, banking on his status and connection with the Empress to shield him from harm, but what if that wasn’t what happened. What if his father had made a deal to save him, a deal that included taking another wife and producing an heir who would in turn, destroy Rene’s claim to his father's titles. Such an agreement would leave him disinherited but alive and it would account for the unseemly speed of the union. That didn’t necessarily mean that the Chastains had been behind it of course, but they were an unusual choice for such a match, politically there were better candidates, one of the Hesperii or even one of the cadet branches of the the Vilantre family, someone who would bind the wealth and power of the Du Quentains to the Imperial family and preventing them from becoming the focus of a rival power block.

It didn’t mean they were behind it, but someone had killed Amelia and framed Rene for it as so far the Chastains were the clear winners, they had been in position to make the match at the right time and they had had the political backing they needed to make it happen, that was even more suspicious if they were in the kind of financial trouble Solae indicated. They had to at least be involved. Something he couldn’t have known if he hadn’t met Solae, he realised. Their meeting and her knowledge were something the conspirators could never have counted on, it was a minor miracle he had ever even seen another noble much less one with the family connections to give him this intelligence. Ordinarily he would have been horrified to realize that this put her in more danger, or would if anyone involved found out about thier relationship, but given the events in the Eastern Cross at the moment, a threat from a cabal on Capella was a problem for another day.

“He did it for me,” Rene breathed, realizing that Solae had been patiently silent while his mind wheeled through rings of conspiracy. In hindsight the conclusion was an obvious one. He had been escaped the custody of the Imperial Guard in the most secure area of the most secure world in the Empire. What were the odds that he could have made his way to a recruiting station without people deliberately turning a blind eye. Rene shivered and sweated as his body roiled with unfamiliar combinations of thoughts and feelings. Grimly he tried to lock down his emotions and regain his ordinary equilibrium.

“He must have done it in exchange for letting me enlist, and so that I didn’t have an ‘accident’ during training. That is the only explanation I can see,” he murmured.

“They had to have at least known it was going to happen…” he told Solae. The veins in his temple throbbed with anger even though he kept his face in a calm disciplined mask.

“Sir Rene, you heart level is elevated,” Mia commented in the tone of a hopeful flirt. Renes head swam as he stood up unsteadily. Thick walls of glass appeared to be closing around his mind and his vision narrowed.

“We will know more once Mia has a chance to dig,” Rene said haltingly.

“Lady Solae, Sir Rene may be going into shock as a result of a combination of emotional trauma and the wounds he …” Blackness stole over Rene, cutting off the end of the sentence as he slumped into unconsciousness.

Damned to the Depths

Levitation was a difficult spell to employ at the best of times. Unlike most spells that were complete once incanted a levitation spell had to be maintained for as long as you wanted the object in question to float. Calliope’s eyes followed the snaking rope that fell from above. The crew had climbed to the firing position and lowered it down. It was a thick hawser cable, braided together until it split five feet above the cannon, a noose like knot encircling the breech and the muzzle. She climbed onto the cannon and sat down upon the cold metal clearing her mind.

“Haul!” she yelled, and the rope went taught. The words of the spell slid off her tongue like rain dancing into a still pool, her mind focused taking in every detail of the cannon visualizing it floating upon a gentle zephyr of magical energy. The cannon began to rise as its weight decreased. Even for the mighiest wizard lifting several hundred pounds of metal hundred of feet in the air would have been nearly impossible, but she was able to make just light enough that the muscle power of the crew could do the job. The cannon rose steadily. Calliope not only had to keep her concentration but she also had to kick out with her feet, fending the cannon away from the cliffside as she rose.

“I heard, I heard an old man say… haul!...” the shanty rumbled as the men hauled at the ropes. Calliope looked out behind her has she rose. The sea was calm and the wind low, which was a mercy because keeping staton in high waters would have been all but impossible. This island was one of the outer barrier islands that protected the Bloodaxe harbor, to the left and right she could see the green shrubby forest that covered the front of the island, catching enough water from rains and sea spray which filtered through the rock to counteract even the desert winds which blew in of Arad Lind. Fortunately the rocky spire was high enough that they should have a clear line of sight from the peak.

By the time she neared the top Calliope was sweating and shaking from the effort of maintaining the spell. It was longer than she had ever tried to hold an incantation before but there was no choice now, the sudden failure of the spell at best would lead to her plunging back down the cliff as the men tried desperately to slow the rope, at worst the shock of a hundred extra pounds that hadn’t been there a moment before would part the rope and she would fall to her death. Despite the danger she felt exhilarated to be so high, the urge to spread her wings and … Suddenly there were hands reaching down to grip the cannon and swing it onto the top of the peak. She held the spell until they settled the long barrel into the wooden gun carriage and then released the spell. The wood creaked as the gun settled and she let out a long breath.

The view from the top of the island was spectacular. The broad bay below had been formed from the remains of an ancient volcano, each of the barrier islands a fragment of the caldera wall that the sea had battered its way through to form the four channels that led into the calm lagoon below. The Arad shore was green where water from a spring spilled down from a line of rocky hills to a broad beach. A makeshift pier ran out into the ocean where three ships, the long blood axe galleys, swung at anchor. A fourth was run up on the beach, smoke coiling from underneath it where breening fires were being set to burn away seaweed and barnacles that ships developed during long service. The copper plated bottoms of modern ships made the chore less frequent, but even the greatest warships occasionally needed to remove the trails of material that would otherwise slow their speed through the water. A fifth ship was winding its way through one of the channels. This was no galley or pirate vessel but a square rigged brig of northern design. Judging by the fact that the pirates did not seem agitated by its arrival, it must have been a trading partner. Markus was already studying it through his brass telescope. It made sense that the pirates sold what they didn’t use themselves, though Calliope hadn’t imagined that would be a factor in their raid. The extra guns and men might be a problem if the brig were inclined to fight, the Weather Witch’s main advantage was that she could out run the galleys in anything like a wind, with another square rigger dogging her, that might be a problem.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

“Keep your shield up!” Matis shouted as he battered at the peasant with a length of fencing post. The wood clattered against the shield like slamming door as the wiry with hunter hammered his opponent with surprising force. The instruction might have been more helpful if he had remembered to speak Brettonian but the blow he delivered across the man's head when he dropped the shield was eloquent enough. Around him two double lines of peasants stood wailing away with their own wooden weapons while Leofric shouted at them to keep their shields tight.

Camilla sat upon a fallen statue watching the proceedings with a slightly pained expression. In the week since the Grail Knight had appeared word had spread of her alleged elevation as a religious figure, her small band of peasants had grown from a score to well over a hundred. There were enough of them now that she had felt some sort of training was necessary if they were to be effective. The decision hadn’t been popular with Beaumont and his men, who viewed the situation with growing alarm. What at first had been few homeless peasants was fast becoming an army and teaching them to use Imperial tactics was almost as bad as leading a rebellion in their eyes. Two more of the knights had deserted over the past week, uncomfortable with the perceived heresy or her arming and training of peasants. Even those who had stayed seemed uncomfortable and unhappy, though as yet their loyalty to Beaumont outweighed their disquiet towards her.

To make matters worse they had not encountered any of the undead in the few days since the battle by the ruins. A battle would have been good to pull everyone together, and it would have eased Camilla’s mind that she was on the right path. A gnawing sense of doubt had begun to grow that maybe she was on the wrong track, a discomfort that Renard’s blind faith that she knew what she was doing, made worse.

“They have a long way to go,” Matis griped as he climbed the hill to where Camilla watched, Leofric making up in invictive for the absence of the Imperial’s skill. Camilla did not answer immediately, if only Cydric were here, she was certain he would be able to whip these men into order far faster than Matis could. Try as he might the Witch Hunter just wasn't a man to lead others, except maybe by fear.

“Well we may not have to much more time,” Camilla said finally, the silence compelling her to say something.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t send to Bourdeaux for handguns?” Matis asked.

“Absolutely not! Bad enough you are training this rabble rather than trusting the Knights too…” Beaumont exploded. Camilla gave a weary sigh which cut of the night more effectively than a slap to the face might have done. She didn’t bother to point out that the gallant Knights of Brettonia were yet to do much more than squabble amongst themselves.

“This isn’t the Empire Matis,” Camilla pointed out, as she had the previous times he had raised the notion.

“The don’t sell powder at every trading post, we wouldn’t be able to keep them firing.” That was nothing but the truth. It was becoming hard enough to feed the men now that their numbers had grown to the point they couldn’t easily forage. The local lords had refused to allow trade with them but the outlying villages, perhaps encouraged by the nobles dislike for ‘Mademoiselle Aqua’ had showered them with gifts of grain and wine as well as offering her fresh recruits. Camilla needed more horses, more wagons, more things than she had ever imagined worrying about. Part of her felt she owed a great many quartermasters an apology for the complaints she had leveled against them.

“Riders!” a shout came from one of the lookouts. Everyone reached for their weapons but a moment later a second shout followed.

“Scouts returning!”

Everyone relaxed as their fears of a column of Knights bent on teaching peasants a lesson faded. The scouts, lean pinch faced men on wiry mounts cantered down the road, their horses heads drooped with exhaustion from the unusual exertion. The leader of the small group a hatchet faced man named Gaston whom Camilla suspected had been a bandit rather than a peasant, leaped from his horse and jogged up the hill to her, falling to his knees in the elaborate deference that all the peasants had adopted.

“Mademoiselle, it is as you say,” he gasped. Camilla passed a waterskin to the man who unstoppered it and drank deeply.

“At ze old Chantry on ze island in the river, we saw movement and strange lights,” Gaston confided in his heavily accented Brettonian. Camilla felt herself relax even though she knew that this meant they were in serious danger, at least she had not lead them off on a wild goose chase.

“Zere is more Mademoiselle, as we were creeping up, we met… an elf,” he breathed looking around as though speaking the words allowed would bring ill fortune.

“An elf?” almost everyone asked at once. Gaston nodded energetically.

“He came out of no where, said he had something to tell you and that you should meet him on the path to the chantry after dark,” Gaston explained.

Grim Galaxy: Shots and Chances

The sudden light of the sun was blinding. Junebug stood like a statue, unable to move or even breathe. She had the disturbing sensation that her heart wasn’t beating. They were on a dune, an almost shear wall of falling sand. In the distance smoke rose from the shattered mesa where, a second ago she would have sworn she stood. Two brass casings hung suspended in the air beside her ejection port, held in the air by nothing Junebug could determine. Saxon stood beside her, equally imobile, his wrist mounted cannon was frozen in mid muzzle blast, the small hyper velocity bullets frozen a few inches from the muzzle.

With a sudden crack the muzzle blast completed and the suspended bullets vanished, the casings fell to the sand below her feet and Junebug staggered her mind reeling. She had been shooting at someone, hadn’t she? But that had been inside a spacecraft? Recent memories were confused and garbled and she could remember little since being thrown into the alien ship. Taya fell to the sand beside her, a small pistol in her hand and her eyes wide and staring. No ne seemed able to move but after a moment Junebug’s hands moved on their own, mechanically stripping the half empty clip from her stolen rifle and replacing it with a fresh one. The action snapped shut and the sound seemed to free the others from their temporary paralysis. Saxon leaped to his feet, bearing his teeth and letting out a sibilant screech of rage. He really was quite attractive in a primal sort of way Junebug observed. Neil stepped into view and helped Taya to her feet.

“What happened…” Taya gasped, her eyes wide and terrified.

“We used the lifeboat,” Neil explained, he was calmer looking that Sayeeda felt he had any right to be. Whatever had happened they clearly weren’t in a lifeboat she thought mulishly.

“What lifeboat,” Taya asked, clearly desperate for something she could make sense of.

“I told you they had control over time,” Neil explained, looking a little uncomfortable.

“AID, replay past thirty seconds at 2x,” Junebug instructed, speaking only with a considerable mental effort. Her helmet obediently began to replay footage, she saw the doors blowing off their hinges and the muzzle flash of her own weapon as she opened fire. Saxon stepped from behind cover to add his fire to hers. Junebug saw herself reload, catching a glimpse of Taya, eyes squeezed shut, firing her pistol the direction of the door. Sayeeda leveled her rifle and opened fire, her view point rocking with the violence of the long automatic burst and then… she stood on the dune.

“It froze us in time, just for a second,” Neil was saying, “enough that the rotation of the planet bought us clear.”

Junebug’s mind shied away from the implication of the statement and she mentally shrugged, trying to fight her way clear of the mental apathy that whatever had just happened had induced. To the eyes of the enemy they must simply have vanished, although that might be hard to be sure of in the chaos and confusion of their attempted breach.

“Cyckali,” Saxon hissed, his Hexagallion mouthparts doing a better job of rendering her last name than either her given name or her nickname. She turned to see him pointing away down the trough of the june. Perhaps a half a kilometer away there smoked a metallic object that shimmered with heat. Her helmet magnified the view to show Canek’s tank. It lay on a pool of glass, its composite armor all but glowing with heat energy. The turret was completely gone, lifted by the force of the blast when one of the anti-tank artillery shells had found the fusion bottle. Junebug had seen the sight to many times to hold out any hope. Her mouth worked and she began to laugh. They had no money, no parts to fix the Highlander, their employer was a cloud of vaporized carbon, they were in the middle of the desert with no transport and an unknown number of well equipped enemies were certain to hunt them down as soon as they realised they weren’t hiding on the ship somewhere. The almost hysterical laughter echoed of the quiet dunes, broken only by the distant crack of fracturing metal as the stricken tank collapsed in on itself.

Via Stellarum

Kyra shook her head, although more to clear it than in any acknowledgement of Corporal O’Byrne. The sound of machinery tearing itself to bits and the distant hammer of guns made it difficult to hear anything from the dropship. She opened her mouth to say something when a sudden deafening crack nearly threw her from her feet. The dropship ran like an enormous struck bell and showers of sparks flew crazily skyward, incandescent red and white with traces of burning metal. A moment later a second strike and a third punched into the stricken dropship, filling the inside with ricocheting shrapnel that cut equipment and conscripts to pieces with equal indifference. Dirt and loam sprayed up in wheel barrow sized scoops, heated dirt and stone prickling and burning through the supposedly ‘flame resistant’ uniforms.

Kyra divided sideways and rolled into a nearby ditch cut by run off from the infrequent rains. She swung her weapon to bear on the threat, following the illuminated path of the tracers back to its source. On a distant hill top she could see the starburst muzzle flash of a heavy weapon probably mounted on a heavy vehicle. Although it was far out of range, she swung her rifle onto it by rote and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. The mechanical lock out was still in place, the conscripts weapons were locked before they were issued, to be unlocked only by their officers when the reached the ground. It was a polite fiction that this was to prevent accidental discharges during the drops, the truth was that the conscripts might otherwise find turning the weapons on those same officers too tempting.

“No one left alive,” some shouted, maybe Kyra. More weapons were firing, apparently the men who had come with O’byrne had unlocked weapons, though the range was still far to great for their weapons to be effective. One of O’byrne’s men grabbed her by the shoulder and shoved her backwards.

“Fall B..!” his words ended with a wet crack as a round cut him in half, spraying Kyra with hot blood and bits of fragmented body armor. The hot taste of blood was on her lips as she trembled, breathing rapidly as her body began to lock up.

“RUN!”

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Characters:

Konrad Bowie (deceased) - Imperial Marine and a close friend of Rene. Killed at the Rat Trap.

Lt Van Heck (deceased) - Imperial Marine and commander of the Rat Trap. Killed at the Rat Trap.

Countess Marlene Elaine Lares (deceased) - Imperial noble and friend to Solae. Killed in the attack on the embassy.

Lord Armon (deceased) - A former romantic interest of Solae's. Owner of a manor on the outskirts of Armistice. Current evidence suggests he is dead.

Amellia - The noblewoman Rene was falsely accused of murdering.

Duke Alexis Tan - The self styled Emperor of the Eastern Cross and usurper of Imperial rule.

General Antigony Bhast - Senior military commander advising Alexis Tan.

Min Ho 'Demeter' Park. aka alias Hyun Tae Young - Former Imperial Assassin currently living on New Concordia under an assumed name.

Oanh Park - Sniper and wife of Min Ho Park.]

Damaris - Little girl from Panopontus, in line to be adopted into the Falia family.

Tychon - Damaris' father.

Julia - Damaris' mother.

Vitger - Merchant who attempted to capture Rene and Solae, currently being blackmailed to keep their visit a secret.

Gisella Chastain du Quentain - New wife of Rene's father, the Chastain family is an ancient one that fell out of favor some years ago

Lucretia du Quentain - Daughter of Alric and Gisella, Rene's half sister.

Ten - Kingpin on Zatis

Star Crossed: The Duke's Rebellion

Rene gripped Solae’s hand in mute shock. Intellectually he had always known that is father might remarry. The importance of dynastic succession was drummed into aristocrats as soon as they were old enough to understand the concept. With Rene unable to inherit, and the likelihood he would die in Imperial service in any case it was natural that his father would seek to secure the family position. This might be done through adoption, usually of a promising member of one of the cadet branches rather than a commoner as Solae had promised to do with Damaris, or it might be done by the simple expedient of producing another child. It wasn’t so simple of course, the cost of producing a genetically modified child was enormous and there were lengthy and protracted legal implications for both the genetic donors, a point that made his father rapid remarriage all the more unusual.

The hologram projector whirred to produce a still image of Alric and an attractive younger woman, perhaps a few years older than Solae. She had raven dark hair and sharp features as she stood in an elaborate wedding dress of gossamer worm silk, clasped with a set of stunning fire sapphires. Alric himself was a taciturn looking man whose lips were pulled into the slight smile which was the most Rene had ever seen from the man. He wore a tailored uniform of an Imperial Captain, with a commodores stud on the right shoulder. The background was of the summer house on Capella, far to the north in the mountainous northern ranges. It was an idyllic place in the summer though Rene had loved it year round. Reaching into the hologram field touched the empty air at the corner of the picture and a box of text appeared below it.

Alric Perseus du Quentain, Baron of the Court, and Knight of the Companions, marries Gisella Chastain in a private ceremony. An icon appeared offering more information but Rene disregarded it, unwilling to read an article that would be more gossip than fact and doubtless mention how the noble Alric had been deprived of his original heir due to that heirs heinous murder of a handmaiden of the Empress.

“The Chastains?” Rene asked, they were an old family that had fallen out of favor during the convulsions of the last few decades before. The had enjoyed a reputation as loyal servants at the beginning of the previous regime and had been slow to abandon Phillipus Viatrente as he descended into madness and paranoia. Rene seemed to remember that they had gained considerably from the various confiscations and prosecutions of that time. It must have been rather a coup for them to land a union with the du Quentains, though it would by no means cause a scandal.

“Don’t the Chastains have connections to the Falias?” Rene asked furrowing his brow, trying to remember the tangled genealogies of the Imperial court. Like all nobles he was most familiar with his own house and their historical allies and antagonists, even genetic scholars couldn’t keep track of everything without the aid of computers. Fortunately Mia correctly interpreted this as a question for Solae and didn’t interject with whatever data she had on hand.

Rene touched another of the miniaturized holograms and it sprang into a full sized picture of Gisella cradling a newborn child. It was a stock pose that all noble mothers performed, in deliberate imitation of the Madonna of ancient legend rather than expression of actual maternal affection, something which would have been unusual in such highly designed children. Rene bought up the ledgend.

Gisella Chastain du Quentain welcomes first child, Lucrecia du Quentain.

A shiver passed through Rene, he didn’t know how to feel, certainly he had known his father would do something to ensure that the house did not pass to their distant and hated relatives but the intellectual knowledge and the actual fact were two seperate things. Could this be in some way related to the murder of Amelia and his framing for it. If so why? Certainly the marriage was a good one for the Chastains but that seemed rather a small reward for the risk of serious Imperial displeasure. Mercedez Viatrente was a good ruler in Rene’s opinion and that of his fathers, maybe a great one, but she was as hard and ruthless as a tiger shark when it came to the throne and her position upon it.

“I don’t know what it means,” Rene admitted feeling his heart thud in his chest. He wasn’t sure why he felt the way he did. It shouldn’t be dangerous to look at the files, after all, it was archival information, they weren’t actively penetrating any databases and it was hardly as though Solae could be in much more danger. Did he feel he had been replaced? His father had hardly waited to the ink was dry on his enlistment paper before he had begun the process of replacing him. Did this family have something to do with it? Or was he merely placing his anger at the situation onto a wicked stepmother.

“I don’t know,” he repeated blankly, squeezing Solae’s hand in a blind search for comfort.