Disclaimer:
Naturally, I do not have any ownership over Sid Meier's Alpha Centauri/Alien Crossfire Universe or any of its characters.
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With that settled, let me first say thank you for your curiosity in my writing. I hope you enjoy it. Please be sure to read and review. Reviews in particular will drive me to complete chapters longer, as it will tell me that there are individuals who are actually interested in my work.
My Alpha Centauri story takes place a few years after Planetfall, though before Alien Crossfire. There will be Alien Crossfire characters present in the story itself, although the Progenitors have yet to make their appearance.
Thanks again.
- tansoku
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It was a cold and gloomy morning with an unpleasant moisture to the air that hinted to a downpour. Through the upper echelons of Gaia's High Garden, a cool breeze pushed through the solar conservatory. Flowers that normally were bright with vibrant colors seemed muted against the charcoal skies of Chiron.
Sitting beside her closest advisors, Lady Deirdre Skye beheld the scene before her. Guards adorned in the deep green body armor of the Gaian militia had surrounded her prisoner: an aging Morganite, adorned in nothing else but a shroud of dusty linens. She found the weather appropriate somehow, closing her eyes and inhaling the rich air of Chrion's surface. Even though Planetfall was years behind her, the combination of the planet's atmospheric conditions with the faint hypnotic presence of her gardens left Deirdre euphoric. She paused a moment to savor the fruits of her labor over the years before gently pushing the thoughts away, gripping the armrests of her chair.
The solar conservatory of Gaia's High Garden represented the apex of her research in hybrid xenobiology and botany. She had taken samples of flowers, trees, and herbs along with her from Earth, modifying their genetic structure to endure Chiron's unique environment. She had even engineered new species using Earth lifeforms as a template. The product had been these hybrids that surrounded her now. Beautiful snow white marble made up conservatory's floor, leading through fountains and menageries until arriving at where she sat now. A small stairway led up to an elevated platform, of which there were a series of unexpressed chairs, carved from darkened woods. Deirdre sat upon a chair slightly higher than the others, situated within the middle, while her advisors surrounded her in the others.
She did not know the name of the Morganite, nor did she wish to. Instead she merely listened as her advisors whispered his crimes within her ear. He had been a spy. Discovered skulking in the basements of the High Garden's sister colony, Song of Planet. An attempt to sabotage equipment or steal valuable research data. He had not been the first.
The winds sent goosebumps against her fair skin as she drummed a fingertip against the armrest of her chair. "What do you have to say for yourself, Morganite? I would caution you to think of your reply carefully before you speak," her tone was cool and icy. Months earlier she had been lenient, releasing discovered spies from her outskirts colonies with warnings never to return, but now they were growing closer to her. Into bases where potentially dangerous technology could fall into enemy hands.
The Morganite looked sad and tired. Waves of loose, flabby skin fell through the folds of her shroud. His silver-white hair had grown unkept and contrasted distastefully against his olive-coloured skin. "I was only following orders, Great Lady of The Trees. I did not want to come here."
She took subtle notice as his expression turned to horror as she shook her head at his response. "I do not believe you any longer, Morganite. We have been lenient to you and your people. We have been kind – releasing you unharmed back to your unsightly cities. We have even supplied you with food and purified water. I am more inclined to believe that Nwabudike has tempted you with some promise of materialistic fortunes. But they have led to your demise now," she turned her deep green eyes to her closest advisor, Goldman. Goldman himself was old, but his body had been nurtured by various anti-aging processes. A silver braid fell down his simple green robes, his face stern and unphased.
"Goldman, please proceed."
The Gaian pushed himself free of his chair, pulling a small silver case from the folds of his robes. His eye blue eyes focused on the Morganite, who began to squirm against the hold of the guards.
"My lady! Please! Have mercy! Anything you ask and it shall be yours!"
Inside, Deirdre felt a pang of hesitation, but she would not show weakness to her advisors. Instead she merely gazed at the Morganite with a look of cold contempt as Goldman pulled a gleaming syringe from the case he held in hand. Its contents as green as the pines that surrounded them. With grace uncharacteristic of his build, Goldman plunged it into the Morganite's neck, the serum disappearing from the syringe capsule.
The Morganite screamed and the guards released him. Before long, his screams began to muffle against an unseen force, his fat pudgy fingertips clawing hopelessly at his neck as if he were being strangled by a bolt of cloth. His olive-green skin warped with a sickly grey hue, his eyes pulsing with panic. His limbs began to swell and his joints began to crack. Deirdre could not help but glance to her side as Lindly, one of her most promising Talent Empaths, grimaced from the sight. Within minutes, the climax of the procedure had arrived as the Morganite's clammy grey-skin fell from his bones in clumps of gore. Following it came muscle, all while the Morganite still writhed in agony. When there was nothing left but bones surrounded by a pile of gore, Deirdre spoke.
"I want you to leave my forests and never return," she whispered. "Goldman, have his remains placed in the fertilizer chambers. Archer, I would like you to send a message to Morgan Industries. Instruct his secretaries that I wish to speak with him as soon as possible."
She pushed herself from her chair as her advisors dispersed. Only Goldman remained as his own aides began the grisly task of scooping the Morganite slop into sealed containers. The breeze quickened, dancing through her long merlot curls and flapping against the folds of her dress – a dark green hybrid silk spun from flora. She left the solar without a word to anyone, her anger simmering inside of her like boiling waters. This recent wrath of hers was uncharacteristic of her normal gentle calm and kind nature – of this she knew – but her patience wore thin with the Morganites.
She at least hoped it would not come to war.
