43. Pilgrims' Progress

The Chouginga Dai-Gurren was the mightiest warship in known space, a factory of destruction capable of bringing the most heavily-defended of star systems to their knees single-handed. It was capable of housing and supplying the combined military forces of an entire planet, of realigning and re-engineering its machinery to perform virtually any task... and with the arrival of the man who had once brought it back to life after a thousand years of slumber, it was waking up.

Green flames raced upon deserted corridors like blood through the veins of some vast animal as the arrhythmic throbbing of the wounded reactors began to slow and steady, becoming a deep, even hum. New, gleaming weapons nosed out of the continent-sized flanks, kilometre-wide rents closed with the majesty of temple doors, and for the first time since the War of Liberation, the cavernous factory floors echoed with the sound of gigantic metal boots hitting steel as the first of the newly-forged Space Grappals stepped off the production lines. The Chouginga had been crippled, paralysed, and left pilotless and bereft, but finally, on the eve of the alliance's counterattack, it was preparing for war.

Four hours, three wrecked combs, and a whole lot of scrubbing later, its pilot was ready to join it.

"So what am I supposed to be doing now?" he asked Yoko, who was trying not to feel like she was being dragged along despite the fact that she was walking a few steps in front of him.

"The usual," she replied. "Get this place running again, rally the troops, say a few words, and apply a boot to the backside of some downright unfriendly deities. You know. Inspire."

"I don't get a command-role, then?"

"Nope. Viral offered – quite insistently, in fact – but I talked him down. Figured you'd appreciate that."

"I would indeed. Never really got the hang of all those nitty-gritty details, to be honest."

"True. The speeches were good, though."

He turned to look at her. "Wait, you liked the speeches?"

Yoko sighed. "Simon, you convinced the entire population of the planet to back you against a sentient, genocidal dimension. I think everyone liked the speeches."

"Yes... I suppose so. It's just that everything always went rather fuzzy when I was... half the time I just went with the... never mind. Not important."

The Spiral Nation's greatest warrior averted his eyes in precisely the manner of a child who realised too late that he'd said too much, and Yoko was forced to remind herself that demanding that someone spit out what they were hiding lest they be sent to the naughty corner did not work quite so well on adults. Since when did Simon do enigmatic?

The area around the Chouginga's control core had, predictably, been a major target for the Chaos raiders, with entire cubic kilometres of hull, superstructure, and assorted subsystems reduced to mangled, toxic wreckage by their devastating plague-bombs. Even the winding, circuitous route that Simon, Yoko, and their second, rather more professional and heavily-armed, escort team now took was in a bad way, with sagging structural braces, wall-panels blown apart to reveal charred, sparking cables, and tributaries walled off with hastily-erected vacuum barriers.

As they went along their way, though... things changed. What once was scorched and twisted gleamed anew, lights blinked on in shattered instrument panels, and scattered debris sprang back into place with mindless enthusiasm. Wisps of raw Spiral Energy played across the passageway's surfaces, reknitting and reshaping everything they touched.

The Spiral Nation did not have much in the way of history or mythology, most of it expunged long ago by the tyrannical rule of the Anti-Spirals and their servants. Rediscovering and imparting what little they had was one of the primary goals of President Rossiu's education system, and far away from her classroom, in the bowels of the vast, ancient ship that had once been called the Cathedral Terra, flagship of the legendary Spiral Knights, a memory rose to the forefront of Yoko's mind.

It was of the years immediately after the War of Liberation, when she had still been more a schoolteacher than a headmistress, and the grandiose Littner Memorial Academy was still little more than an idle fantasy. She had been sitting outside with the children at the end of the day, reading from an ancient, fragile, and yet beautifully-maintained storybook, and one illustration in particular had caught her eye. It was of a king or prince, his royal garments lavishly detailed, walking tall and proud through a desert. In his footsteps, tiny plants sprouted, the green of their leaves and the rainbow hues of their flowers still visible even through the fading of the ink. That's Simon, all ri-

She was interrupted from her reverie by a flash of green light beside her. Boota the pigmole had been strutting alongside them on his stubby little legs, puffed up with the very particular self-importance that only an undersized meat-animal mainlining pure Spiral Energy could manage. In his place was a short, bipedal, pink-furred creature who looked like an especially weedy beastman.

She gaped. The Boota-creature nervously waved in her direction. She continued to gape.

"Oh, don't mind Boota," Simon said, stepping between them smoothly. "He does that from time to time. Sergeant, mind seeing if you can get him a uniform?"

The officer walking behind them saluted crisply, her face like granite. "Of course, sir."

As the impassive soldier led the ex-pigmole away, Yoko slowly hinged her jaw shut.

"So that... that's a normal thing, is it?" she asked, trying to sound casual. "Just another day in the life of Simon the Digger?"

He shrugged. "It's happened a fair few times, yes. More frequent lately."

She glared at him. "Simon, he used to ride around in my cleavage!"

"Yes, I had to... train him out of that habit." Simon at least had the decency to look sheepish. "Caused a few incidents, you see."

"Such as- no, wait, I don't want to know. I really don't want to know. Let's just keep moving, all right? Before the repairs catch up with us."

"Oh. Right. Those." He glanced backwards, looking disquietingly shaken at what he saw. "Good idea."

They picked up the pace, riding the bow-wave of the Spiral's transformations to the ancient dreadnought. The corridor widened, spreading out into one of the vast chambers that contained the core's power conduits, the grinding of gears from the machine itself echoing through the cavernously distant ceiling. Their steps slowed, green lights racing past them as the repairs continued.

"Well, this is it," Simon said quietly. "How do I look?"

The grooming session had improved matters, Yoko had to admit. The years had not been kind to him, but at least now he actually looked his age (specifically, a couple of years younger than her) rather than appearing to have stepped out of the weekly meeting of Deranged Wasteland Elders Anonymous. Also, nobody had ever quite figured out what the traditional garb for Spiral warriors was, but it was near-universally agreed that it didn't involve shirts. As a result, there was a not-inconsiderable amount of gleaming, toned muscle on display next to her, which shifted interestingly in the alien half-light of the Chouginga's interior. A few more tattoos and he could almost pass for... no, no. Bad Yoko. Bad, bad Yoko. That's quite enough of that.

She grinned lopsidedly at him. "Cleaner than when you got here, at least."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "Good enough."

Simon walked further into the chamber, still gazing up at the titanic conduit. Without needing to be told, Yoko hung back. The universe seemed to be reshaping itself around her, all the drifting, disconnected uncertainty of the past few decades draining away. Her senses seemed more acute, the colours of the world brighter and sharper.

The leader of the Dai-Gurren Brigade drew the Core Drill from his pocket, and looped the chain around his neck.

"Right," he announced matter-of-factly. "I'm ready."

There was, strictly speaking, no real change in his appearance. He just... shifted slightly, his back straightening, his outline seeming somehow clearer and more defined. Nevertheless, the effect was as profound as the birth of a sun, faint ripples of pure potentiality brushing through the souls of every living being within a hundred light-years.

"Thirty years ago, we earned our freedom."

He did not raise his voice. He did not need to. Everyone onboard the moon-sized starship heard him as easily as if he had been standing next to them.

"The freedom to live our lives as we saw fit. To decide our own safety, our own security. To no longer cower in fear beneath the heavens' wrath."

The chamber's ceiling folded outward as the conduit retreated back into the wall, revealing a long, dark tunnel with a green light at the end.

"And so we grew. We prospered. We reclaimed our heritage, slowly but surely setting our old, warlike ways behind us."

The edges of the floor fell away, leaving a raised platform the size of a city block in the middle of the room. Without turning around, Simon beckoned Yoko and the escort detail forwards.

"But we did not forget the lessons we had learned."

Yoko stepped onto the platform, her legs almost moving of their own accord. There was no complexity any more, no indecision. For the first time in three decades, she had a job to do, a clear, certain purpose, and it felt wonderful.

"The ends do not justify the means. Even to save your world, your universe, there are lines that should not be crossed. The false gods of Chaos claimed to be working to save their people from some alien, nebulous threat – and we would have helped them, if they had only asked. Instead, they enslaved millions, slaughtered billions – and one word from us, one tentative agreement to curtail their ambitions, was enough for them to do it to us too."

The platform rose, floating through lairs of armour-plating like geological strata. The green light above them was growing brighter, and faint details of the room it was emanating from were coming into view. Not that Yoko was paying much attention to it – her head was filled with combat manoeuvres, weapon profiles, and the other, endless military trivia of her old life. Frolov chakra – handy for getting behind the enemy in a close-quarters dogfight... AT-690 Ganmen assault rifle – good weapon, Spiral-compatible, somewhat inaccurate and prone to jamming...

"This cannot stand. This will not stand."

Their destination was clearly visible now – a red-and-grey titan, five kilometres tall, suspended amidst a forest of interlocking drills. The heart of the Chouginga. The Arc Gurren-Lagann.

"They think they have crippled us. More, they think us softened, decadent, unable to oppose them. They think that we will allow them to run roughshod over the innocent, to turn entire universes into living nightmares in the name of panicked self-preservation."

He spun to face them, his cloak billowing out behind him. There was a flash of red light as he tugged a set of sunglasses shaped like a five-pointed star out of thin air, putting them on with a grin that was positively devilish.

"Who the hell do they think we are?"


It is a common urban legend that pets and their owners tend to share certain physical similarities. The same, some naval personnel would argue, is true for ships and their commanders. For instance, Fleet Admiral Sagitar Thundra's flagship, the Void's Wrath, was big, noisy, unsubtle, and quite possibly compensating for something.

It was five hundred metres long, an entire third larger than a standard Bureau capital ship, and bristled with weaponry. Aside from the standard 'point defences' which, in typical TSAB fashion, were just as capable of chewing through an enemy ship's hull as they were of shooting down incoming missiles, the twelve heavy coilgun turrets, four citykiller-crewed Magical Interface Systems, and three prow-mounted Arc-en-ciels pushed the battleship's firepower levels from 'impressive' to 'ludicrous'. The defences were no less formidable, a series of innovatively-designed multi-layered wards that could almost match a Chaos frigate's void shields in performance even without MIS backup... and with it, they were nearly impenetrable.

As mighty as the Void's Wrath was, though, the spectacle surrounding it dwarfed it into near-irrelevance.

The one thousand, four hundred, and nineteen dedicated warships and four hundred and eighty-seven support vessels of the First, Second, and Third Fleets were assembled above the industrial planet of Vaizen, their silver hulls gleaming in the world's reflected glow. Amongst and around them flew stranger, more alien vessels – the saucer-hulled Federation and Alliance craft, the long-necked Klingon K't'ingas, and, dominating the gathering, the enormous Star Destroyers and Space Grappals of the New Republic and Spiral Nation respectively.

Operation Guardian was about to commence.

Thundra stumped onto the bridge, bleary-eyed but clear-headed. He wasn't sure that mixing up restorative draughts to help with your superior officer's hangovers was part of a military aide's job description, but so long as Wilson's concoctions worked as well as they did, he wasn't going to complain about it.

"At ease, people, at ease. How's D-space looking, Edix?"

"Bit choppy, sir," the sensors officer replied, "but within expected parameters. Nothing worse than what our extradimensional buddies were facing on the way to this meeting-spot."

"Good. Speaking of, any problems with them yet?"

"None so far, sir," Wilson stated from behind him. "Morale is high, and the Spiral Driver technology has apparently proven most efficacious for dimensional transit. The Spirals themselves are still somewhat delayed in getting their main fleet operational, but this was expected and factored into our existing strategies. One would imagine that repairing a battleship the size of a moon would be somewhat time-intensive."

"Pity. That sort of intimidation-factor would be useful. The more scared they are, the faster they'll surrender, and the less paperwork the rest of us have to write up."

Wilson favoured that comment with one of his small, neat smiles. "Indeed, sir. However, one might hope that a thousand-Arc-en-ciel bombardment might be of some use in that regard. As for other matters, Federation replicators and Suzumiyaverse plasma technology have been fully disseminated amongst the fleet – the latter mostly thanks to the former. A few technical and logistical issues emerged, predictably, but nothing of any real concern save for one major replicator malfunction. Due to that, though, one of our light cruisers, the Snow Wind, needed to be evacuated, and will be unable to accompany us. Tea-towels, I believe."

"Tea-towels?"

"Yes, sir. The entire ship is flooded with them."

"... Of course. Well, good thing we brought plenty of spares. I know a few other ships are experiencing personnel shortfalls – see if you can fit in the Snow Wind's crew where you can."

"Certainly, sir. In fact, I anticipated your orders in that regard – they're shoring up the Second Fleet's Twelfth Squadron."

Thundra blinked. "Oh. Right. Well. Good. And the media?"

"Agreed not to deploy embedded reporters. I believe that some political pressure was applied."

"Helpful of them. Glad to know someone in that mess we're calling a government has a functional brain."

Whilst the fleet admiral was not a fan of civilian involvement in the military on principle, his reasons for wanting to keep journalists out of the Bloodhaven assault were rather more detailed. The Chaos raid and its follow-ups had spooked the public, and if they wanted to retain any semblance of morale, they needed a nice, clean propaganda victory.

Unfortunately, there were few better ways to erode popular support for a war than to actually show people what it involved, and so whilst freedom of the press was fine and dandy when you knew you were in a position to happily stomp on all who opposed you, it was rather less useful when you were heading into unknown territory against an unknown enemy who had previously demonstrated the ability to hand your backside to you on a silver plate. Far better to invade, get the job done, try to minimise the number of things that would go horribly wrong, and filter back a cheerful, adulatory little report with all the messy bits edited out whilst the public remained largely in the dark. Unless, of course, they bothered to listen to the hundred thousand gossipy combat mages gabbing anonymously on the telepathic network. Which they almost certainly would.

Needless to say, Thundra really hoped that Bureau Intelligence's information-control strategies would be up to scratch.

"Anything else I need to know, then?" he asked.

"A few minor matters, sir. There've been some integration and disciplinary issues amongst our allies, especially the Alpha Quadrant forces. Nothing serious so far, but it would be advisable not to put a Klingon commander in charge of an Aldebaranian formation, for instance. Also, the Humanoid Interfaces wish to speak to you regarding the plans for our approach manoeuvres, there's a good-luck message on your terminal from Minister Varrera, and I took the liberty of washing and ironing all your clothes."

"Wilson," Thundra growled, "what have I told you about rummaging around in my underwear drawer?"

"That I was not to do it again. My apologies, sir. However, if you are going to insist on wearing socks of that particular-"

Someone nearby started sniggering – and immediately stopped as the fleet admiral's baleful gaze swept the room.

"Not. One. More. Word. Anyone."

He rubbed his eyes, taking deep, calming breaths.

"The fleet is ready. Fire up the engines – we move out in five."

The cat-type officer operating the helm saluted, baring her elongated canines in a savage grin. "Aye, sir."

Thundra gazed at the monitors, watching the vast, glittering sweep of the invasion fleet as three thousand ships' thrusters lit up one by one... and then they vanished, replaced by the livid, beet-red face of Admiral Jensen, commanding officer of the Federation detachment.

"Thundra," he snarled, "I just received a coded message from one of my captains. Apparently, those superweapons you sold us have side-effects. Severe side-effects. Which neither you nor any of your people told us about. Care to explain why?"

It was amazing, really, how just a few short sentences could ruin your whole day.


The six Yuuzhan Vong vessels fled through hyperspace, their armoured carapaces cracked and bleeding. There had been fifty of them initially, assigned to stage a daring raid far behind enemy lines against the starship factories of the planet Vulpter. Things had not been going well for the Chosen Race's invasion of the galaxy ever since most of their high-ranking officers had decided to accompany the attack on Coruscant in the hopes of grabbing a share of the glory, and the fragmented remains of the fleet's command structure wanted to prove that even with the Republic's unholy new weaponry, they were not yet truly safe from flaming-rock-related retribution.

That plan, unfortunately, had gone completely out the window as soon as twenty-five Mon Calamari cruisers had showed up, all outfitted with that selfsame 'unholy new weaponry'. One endless hail of bright green death later, the commander of the operation had decided that he could live with a little bit of crushing dishonour and signalled the retreat.

Now, he was squatting amidst the ruins of his bridge, trying to plot a course back to friendly territory that wouldn't result in them smacking straight into a Republic blockade, to ignore the agonised groans of his Matalok-class cruiser, and to figure out an excuse that would ensure the supreme commander would fillet him quickly.

The ship lurched, knocking him into an undignified sprawl across the squishy, stinking remains of the chart-table, and a low, ululating howl echoed through the bridge. He staggered to his feet, spitting out vile organic debris.

"And just what in Yun-Yuuzhan's blessed name was that?" he roared.

"Interdictors, commander!" the sensors officer replied, panic in his voice. "The infidels have found us!"

"Of all the... All ships to battle-stations! Have the dovin basals shield our forces, and get the enemy on screen!" He paused. "Wait – we do still have a screen, don't we?"

Fortunately, they did, and even more fortunately, it still worked – as did most of their sensors. Once he'd had a good look at what they showed, though, the commander began to wonder if he might have been better off not knowing. They were surrounded – not by the light vessels and fixed defences of a typical enemy blockade, but by twenty-five cruisers of the sleekly bulbous Mon Calamari design, their hulls already glowing with green fire.

How the phahg did they get ahead of us? Nothing should be able to move that fast. Nothing!

"All hands, brace for im-"

As one, the Spiral-augmented ships opened fire.


The MC90 Star Cruiser Riptide glided through the wreckage of the Vong escapees like a colossal ocean predator, its Spiral Driver fins retracting into their housings on the outer hull. Inside the transparisteel bubble that was the warship's forward observation platform, Til Kesseck, newly-appointed knight of the Jedi Order, watched the cleanup operation with grim satisfaction. Master Skywalker would have expected them to take prisoners, or at least offer the aliens an opportunity to surrender before blasting them into oblivion, but Master Skywalker was not here, and Master Skywalker had not seen what these monsters had done to a civilian shipyard before their fleet – his fleet – had arrived. Besides, there was really nothing quite like listening to the music of the Spiral, its steady rhythm carrying them along as they laid waste to the enemy.

He felt a disturbance in the Force nearby – a tiny spark of life in the devastation they had created. It was an organic, plant-like escape pod, crammed with the bright sparks of Chazrach slaves and the dark, silent voids of their Yuuzhan Vong masters. He concentrated on one of the Chazrach, reading its simple, sluggish thoughts like pages of a book as it quaked in dull, animal terror. He infiltrated its memories, watching as it used its writhing coufee dagger to peel the skin from a screaming dockworker with mindless enthusiasm. A slight nudge to a nearby starfighter pilot's mind and the link broke, the little reptile's thoughts vanishing in horrified agony as Republic lasers punched through the pod's hull and burned it to a crisp.

Kesseck smiled. He'd been mistaken – there were more enjoyable experiences out there after all. Perhaps the Spiral would show him more of them when it sang again.


The Klingon Empire and the Cardassian Union did not share an official border. Instead, they were separated by a vast swathe of territory that was in theory under Federation control, but in practice up for grabs by just about anyone – especially since the Year of Chaos. Both nations had colonies and other interests within the region, some of them closer to their opposite numbers' territory than their own, but it was generally agreed that the presence of an eighty-strong Klingon fleet in the Lyshan system, scarcely ten light-years from the Cardassian border, was pushing things a bit.

Then again, the Klingons had recently had their chief of state killed, their worlds ravaged, and the most sacred holy site in their entire empire reduced to rubble, so the finer feelings of the people responsible were not exactly the highest item on their list of priorities.

The Cardassians, of course, had sent a fleet of their own to intercept their unwelcome guests, and the stand-off had been continuing for hours on end, both sides' commanders exchanging increasingly-belligerent demands and counter-demands whilst tensions steadily rose amongst their subordinates.

It was a Cardassian crew that cracked first, their sensors officer staring at the phantom images on his screen until she was convinced that a cloaked squadron of Birds of Prey was sneaking up beneath them. The Galor-class cruiser's prow phasers flicked out, bridging the gap between the two fleets and impacting on a massive Negh'Var battleship's forward shields.

At once, all hell broke loose.

Across the Klingon armada, delicate, glowing fins slid out of the assembled ships' hulls, encasing them in verdant, silently-burning flames. They scattered, charging into the heart of the enemy formation with impossible speed from a dozen different directions at once. The Galor that had fired the opening shot died first, its desperate attacks simply vanishing into its killers' solid green barriers as enhanced disruptor fire literally shook it to pieces. Another twenty ships were quick to follow, their arms and armour no match for the terrible power of the Spiral Drivers.

The Union forces were not entirely devoid of their own aces in the hole, though.

The Klingon ships' sensors went haywire, registering dozens and then hundreds of new contacts. Five hundred of the dull-brown, ray-like Cardassian warships dewarped above the battle's plane of engagement, the entire Third Order deployed in anticipation of precisely this scenario. A pair of K't'ingas on the outer edge of the engagement were the first Imperial casualties, their hulls sliced apart by hundreds of phaser beams even as they overloaded their barriers, the devastating blasts ripping through yet more Union vessels.

The Klingons pulled out of the remains of the Cardassian vanguard, attempting to reposition themselves to face the new threat... when every sensor system on the battlefield whited out at once.

An explosion blossomed in the middle of the Third Order formation, polychromatic light reaching out to consume everything within a two-hundred-kilometre radius. When it faded away, half of the Cardassian fleet had simply vanished.

All around the melee, perfect, two-dimensional circles began to appear, gateways to a sea of gentle green-and-purple light. Small, silver-hulled ships nosed into realspace, their weapon mounts crackling with technosorcerous energy as they swung to aim at the scattered, stunned remains of the Union's defenders.

The commander of one of the new arrivals pressed a single button on her console, sending an encrypted message to a private terminal a dozen universes away.

This is Commodore Elyse, Artefact Retrieval Unit One. The operation is under way.


In the belly of the TSAB frigate Kaiser's Hammer, Major General Edsyl Pinter, newly-promoted intelligence liaison to Field Marshal Lido, flicked through the message and closed his Device's interface with a small smile. So. It's begun.

It was regrettable in some ways – wars between primitive civilisations were inevitably a messy business, and cleaning up after this one in particular would probably take a while. Even so, it was necessary. The Cardassian Union was simply too chaotic and aggressive an element to be factored into any long-term plans for the Alpha Quadrant's future, and if they could not be properly incorporated, they needed to be removed.

That said, they had certainly been useful in the short-term. Without their ill-fated attempt to paralyse the Klingons and Federation factions before they managed to arm themselves with Spiral Drivers, certain... counterproductive individuals would still be alive. And all it took was a little nudge, some directions, and some professional advice.

Of course, things were not going entirely smoothly. Picard's decision to run off to daddy about that little Code Indigo problem had been... disappointing, to say the least, and he'd need to get in contact with the appropriate Alpha Quadrant contacts regarding the appropriate penalties as soon as he could.

Unfortunately, that would probably have to wait until his part in the Bloodhaven intervention was done. Operation Guardian was the largest military undertaking since the fall of Ancient Belka, and his sponsors wanted someone they could trust on the ground there who wasn't the elderly and somewhat senile Lido. His eyebrow twitched in annoyance as he realised that this was probably precisely why the captain had seen fit to leak the information now.

Still, he wouldn't be a trained officer of Bureau Intelligence if he couldn't take advantage of the opportunities at hand... and he could think of a couple of good ones already. Especially regarding that business with the Infinite Library.

As the invasion fleet began their voyage, Edsyl Pinter hummed tunelessly to himself, smiling all the while. Tomorrow was another day.


Author's Notes: Have I mentioned how much I love writing Yuuzhan Vong? Because I do. I really, really do.

Regarding the sheer numbers of ships involved in this chapter, I am quite aware that the U.S. Navy, one of the largest in the world, has only about two hundred dedicated warships to its name, whilst our own Royal Navy has a mere forty or so. One would imagine that armed forces responsible for supervising entire galaxies (or even universes) would operate on a rather larger scale.

See you next time – which, hopefully, will be rather more prompt this time round.