CHAPTER SIX:
A LOST CHAMPION
"History is like a vile predator—the
strong are absorbed into it, whilst
the weak are destroyed, and leave no
trace that they were ever there. It is
'unfair' as some would say. Sometimes
though, it can be beaten at its own
grisly game."
—Telemachus Rhade of Tarazed, "Life in Time" CY10097.
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Between worlds and galaxies, he drifted...
Lost...
Alone...
Whispering began.
A faint rustle of memories...
"—for exemplary service beyond the call of duty, I, the Ved—"
(—his boots pounded heavily on the metal deck, and he vaulted the rail, plummeting into the amassed ranks of the Magog—)
("Father? What—!")
"—promotion to Major—"
(—Anara's lips met his in a tender kiss. A feeling, hitherto truly unknown to him yet somehow familiar, coursed through his body and he knew that he would die without hesitation to protect her—)
"—Sergeant—"
("It's an honour to meet you at last Lieutenant—")
"This is—"
(—metal struck metal, ringing throughout the gymnasium as they duelled; force lance against force lance, will against will—)
"—I love you.—"
Glittering blue eyes flashed open as the canopy slid back from the stasis unit.
"—I love you.—"
He fought the instinctive urge to shiver from the cold that engulfed him.
In one single, fluidic motion, he levered himself up and out of the pod. His uniform was as it had been mere seconds—centuries—ago. His weapon was secure in its holster.
One by one, he stretched and tested the muscles in each limb. He worked a stiffness from his neck.
And he flexed his bone blades.
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"Florin will die."
He had said that barely twenty-four hours ago, to Constantijn himself no less.
And in a minute, the despot himself would be in the palace doorway, squarely in his rifle's sights.
His first two sons would no doubt prove to be problematic to the barons; the third was but a child and a fop. But what did he care? He was an assassin, first and foremost. The more complex the intrigue, the more infighting that ensued, the better he liked it.
After all, it was good for business.
He smiled tightly to himself as the heralds announced the king's impending arrival. Soon—
—he gasped in shock, hawked and coughed blood. His hands flew from the rifle, scrabbling to reach the long-bladed knife embedded in his back, to pull it out, fight back, anything.
From behind him, he heard someone whisper something.
"Not today, little killer. This is the wrong time, the wrong place. A pity—but only for you."
Carmagnola Pertinax smiled broadly as he left the luxurious hotel, bone blades as ever carefully concealed. Florin would die—but not today.
His plans were safe from interference.
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"Exiting slipstream in three...two...one."
"And if we've got the right system, welcome to the Eagle's Eyrie, super secret base of the High Guard," Harper grinned from beside the piloting console. Beka snorted, trying and failing to hide a smile.
"Scanning..." Andromeda announced. "Binary stars...seven gas giants, two hostile-environment planets, one asteroid belt. Thirty-nine moons scattered about... and one 'super secret base of the High Guard'," she added triumphantly. "IFF indicates it is GS00901."
Dylan could hardly believe what he was hearing, gaze unfocussed as he grinned broadly.
"Dylan?" Andromeda asked, materialising a hologram next to him.
"We found it..."
"Boss! Snap out of it. We only found the 'High Guard Holy Grail' as Mr. Will-to-Power put it."
"Yeah..." He blinked, shook himself. "Andromeda, put it on screen."
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GS00901 had clearly seen better days.
A long spire ran through the centre of the leviathan mass of the station, much like a harpoon embedded in the flesh of a whale. But fully half the spire lay in ruins, decks exposed to the vacuum of space.
Of the eight vast primary docking slips, only five of the fortified protrusions remained. The others lay tattered and torn, shards of metal laying like scraps of torn flesh around the vast structure.
Five concentric central rings wrapped about the ruined spire, two had been badly mauled indeed. Hangars yawned open into the cold; entire sections were gouged out leaving gaping holes in their place.
But what was perhaps most impressive were the debris fields.
Nietzschean warships lay long dead in space like gutted fish. Magog swarmships were scattered in shreds of shrapnel. A semi-liquefied mass transpired to be a stray Kalderan raiding craft.
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Space ruptured, as a glittering blue slit was sliced in reality. Flickering, the wound soon sutured shut once more.
The craft was fitted with the very finest in stealth technology. Completely undetectable apart from to the most exceptional naked eye, it slipped silently through the abyssal infinity of space as stealthily as any assassin's blade.
Its pilot smiled as she tracked her target.
Her superiors would be very pleased.
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The Eureka Maru felt most tiny and cramped as Beka manoeuvred them into dock with an air lock.
Harper rubbed his hands almost gleefully as he stared at the sensor readouts of the station.
"Boss, you're not gonna believe this." He gestured vaguely at the screen. "That thing's still got life support—in this section as well."
Dylan nodded as he held out a bundle to him. "I still want everyone to take EVA suits with them. No sense in taking unnecessary risks."
Harper shrugged as he took the proffered suit. "If you say so. Looks like the hull's mostly intact though—shouldn't be too hard to restore atmosphere to most of the rest of it."
"Oh-kay, we are locked in nice and snug," Beka grinned as she rose from the pilot's chair. "Where's our first stop?"
"Command centre," Dylan grunted as he struggled into a suit. "See what systems we can get operational to make this easier—and recover any records of what happened here."
Tyr snapped his helmet in place. "There shouldn't be anyone alive aboard that wreck, but I recommend extreme caution and that Trance and Rommie keep their rings ready at all times."
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The fleet was gathered, mustered in full strength. The transmission from the scout craft had been relayed from the listening outpost, and now they knew their target's location.
Hangar bays were sealed, airlocks fastened shut.
The fleet leapt into slipstream.
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Intruders!
He stared about at the various control panels, still groggy from his time in stasis.
They would not take the Eyrie. He would hold until reinforcements arrived, no matter how long that took.
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Dylan instinctively dove for cover, then clambered to his feet once more as a glittering green shield appeared, blocking the weapons fire. "Thanks Trance."
"Be back in a second," she winked, plunging head-first into the shield. The plasma flowed over her like liquid, solidifying again as she passed through it.
He turned to Beka, who shrugged through her suit even as a series of explosions echoed throughout the corridor.
"All clear!" came a cheery cry as the shield flickered before dissipating completely. "Just the internal defences."
Dylan frowned as they caught up with Trance. "How thoroughly did you, ah...?"
"Oh don't worry. I just took out a bunch of control links—it won't take long to get them operational again," she waved away his concerns.
"Expecting extra guests?" Beka raised a curious eyebrow.
"Not really, I just thought...caution would be a good idea."
"Uh, guys?" Harper's voice was a mere whisper. "I'm picking up life signs here."
He held up a scanner. "It's for real. Someone's alive on this thing."
Dylan drew his force lance. "Any ideas who? Or what?"
Harper shook his head. "Sorry boss. I got nothin'."
"Trance? Rommie?" Dylan shrugged. "Anything?"
The two masked women glanced at each other, then turned to face ahead as they swept their power rings across the corridor before them, checking screens that they generated.
"I'm sorry Dylan, but all I can find is traces of a life form, nothing more." Rommie shook her head ruefully. "The background radiation must be above typical levels in this section—it's like the ring's being jammed."
"I'm getting the same thing here," Trance admitted.
"Let's move out," Dylan quietly ordered, extending his force lance—
The decks shook and walls rumbled.
"What the hell—?" Beka paused to catch her balance as the deck shook again, and Harper was sent sprawling.
"Rommie—" Dylan began.
"I'm on it," she assured him, scanning equipment springing from her ring. "Just great. An entire Nietzschean battlegroup just entered the system and has launched a wave of boarding parties."
"Heh. And I thought we'd gotten lucky," he grumbled. "Beka, Harper, get back to the Maru and return to Andromeda. Do what you can to buy us time. Rommie, get out there, give them a little grief with your ring. Trance, Tyr, you're with me—we're going to get to the command centre, see if we can find anything useful."
Beka shook her head in protest. "Dylan, with the Maru gone—"
"Trance can get us back safely."
The ringbearer in question gulped, unnoticed by the others. "No pressure then," she muttered to herself.
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The platoon sped through the labyrinthine corridors, occasionally halting to deal with fire from the internal defences. Although the layout was designed to confuse attackers, the information they'd been provided with negated this problem.
The squad's leader paused to glance at his palm screen, and noted with satisfaction that they had reached their objective.
The station's command centre.
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He sprang from the deck, catapulting himself straight upwards, flipping himself backwards at the apex of his leap to land on the catwalk four storeys above. Bone blades extended, he drew his weapon and settled into the shadows to wait.
He did not have to do so for long.
With a faint groan, the ancient blast doors to the command chamber opened.
This was bad news. If they were able to override the security protocols he had himself placed on the doors, they were surely more dangerous than he had believed.
If only he had the time to awaken the others, this would be so much easier.
As silhouetted figures appeared in the doorway, he took careful aim...
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"Weapons fire," Tyr commented.
Dylan tried to focus, but was unable to hear anything. "You're sure?" The Nietzschean looked at him as though he'd asked if he liked breathing. "You're sure. Got it."
"Gauss rifles...and a High Guard force lance."
They both stared up at Trance where she flew above them. She shrugged. "I could be wrong."
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Springing from the ladder, he ran full-pelt toward the safety rail. Much as it pained him to abandon the command centre to these intruders, he knew that alone he had no chance of defeating them. Only with the others and the contents of an entire weapons locker could they be eliminated.
"—I just want—I need to tell you all...you are my family. My TRUE family. And those who are my kin in blood only: I renounce them wholly this day!" Tears had crept into his eyes; he had freely acknowledged them. "We will survive. We will never yield. And I will see you all again very soon."
He blinked at the memory. He needed them, to be sure, and not only to repel the boarders.
A boot slammed against the rail's upper surface, propelling him up and out and away—
—he plummeted, rolling nimbly into a crouch and springing up as he brought his force lance to bear on the closest hostile...
He glanced up at one of the screens' readouts even as he shot the Nietzschean squarely in the chest and dove to one side. His heart caught in his chest, as he heard a great cry of rage and anguish vibrate the deck plates beneath his boots.
Vaulting from cover, he cut down four Dragans point-blank, not giving them a chance. Adjusting the force lance's controls, he flung the weapon from him as he plunged his bone blades into the next soldier's throat.
The lance exploded in the massed ranks of Nietzscheans spilling in through the doorway even as he tore his bone blades from the flesh of his now-limp victim, and he snarled savagely as he dove into the survivors of his attack.
One, an officer of sorts by his insigniae, proved to be not so easy a victim. Brown eyes stared into blue, then briefly flickered down to his gauntlets.
The Dragan gaped at him in confusion. "Why? You're one of—!"
For a single, fatal second, he dropped his guard.
Three bone blades smoothly sank into his abdomen.
"I. AM. NOT. LIKE. YOU! I WILL NEVER BE LIKE YOU!"
As the officer collapsed to the deck, dead, the Nietzschean roared even as he killed a pair of Dragan soldiers simultaneously.
"Hear me! I am Tarsus Augustine! Husband! Father! And I will. Not. Be. Denied. My. Life!" He grunted with the exertion, each word punctuated by the death of another Nietzschean.
He glared about himself as the last of them fell, throat collapsing with a crunch as he cast the corpse aside.
He checked the viewscreens one final time before he left.
It was impossible. But according to the internal sensors, another High Guard officer was aboard and headed right for him.
He might just get through this alive then.
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Rommie winced as another pair of fighters headed for the Maru. Between defending herself and defending the cargo ship, she was sorely pressed. Still, it was more imperative to protect the Maru, she reasoned—she could always rely on her ring to protect her if need be.
Acting impulsively, she flung a pair of emerald harpoons at the fighters, skewering their pilots. She could have just as easily blasted them with a plasma beam, but...she felt an urge.
An urge to create.
Blazing away almost instinctively, she wiped out another squadron of attack craft and the pair of troop transports they were protecting. A Nietzschean cruiser, closing on her ship-self, swiftly found an immense volley of missiles appearing from nowhere at point blank range and its flanks erupted in flame as they struck home, just aft of the main power core.
The fleet loomed ominously, growing closer and closer even as the Maru vanished into the safety of her ship-self's hangar bay.
She smiled as a memory came, completely unbidden, to her mind. A book written thousands of years ago on Earth...
Thank you Professor Tolkien.
She concentrated...
The emerald dragon easily matched her speed as she flew toward the fleet. Larger than even a Siege Perilous destroyer, the construct drew considerable long-range missile battery fire.
"Bet you don't train to fight Green Lanterns every day," she grinned as she paused, allowing her creation to surge onwards past her. Giant claws shredded metres-thick armour like damp lavatory paper. Green flames incinerated interceptor and bomber craft by the dozen. Slaps of the great wings and tail smashed vast holes in armour with near-contemptuous ease. "Did you ever read about Smaug?"
Weapons fire from missile batteries, turrets and PDL's either splashed harmlessly against the creature or—a feat made possible due to her immense and impressive processing capabilities—slipped through holes she created, hitting nothing or other Dragan ships on the other side.
Her ship-self came about, as she shook off the last of the stinging strikes of the Dragans' first wave of attack craft and destroyed them even as they attempted to escape, and Rommie relaxed slightly.
The battle was going well.
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The stink of blood flooded the air, causing Dylan and Trance to gag. Mauled and mutilated Nietzschean corpses littered the corridors before the command centre, blocking the doors and preventing their closing.
"A Nietzschean did this," Tyr realised aloud. "These injuries...all done by a solitary Nietzschean's bone blades."
"But who?" Confusion radiated from Dylan's face as they crossed the threshold and entered the command centre. "Why would a Nietzschean be running around on the Eyrie and thinning the Drago-Kazov gene pool?"
"Identify yourself!" The challenge came from within the command centre.
"This is Captain Dylan Hunt of the Andromeda Ascendant!"
A shadowy shape dropped silently from the dimly lit upper levels, landing softly upon the deck. A mere silhouette in the low levels of light, it strode forward purposefully.
Dylan Hunt truthfully looked Death squarely in the face that day.
The muscular Nietzschean was clad in a High Guard officer's uniform, a scarlet and blood spattered jacket covering his broad frame. Jet-black hair, neatly trimmed into a short cut, framed a face that was a sculptor's dream. Piercing blue eyes stabbed out from their sockets like terrible daggers and a dataport glittered in his neck. His bone blades, slightly longer and sharper than most Nietzscheans', were fully extended and ready for battle, coated in freshly-spilled blood. A pair of gauss pistols, no doubt seized from the dead Nietzscheans, were held loosely but ready in his powerful hands.
The Nietzschean nodded, seemingly relieved as he confirmed the truth to Dylan's words. "Major Tarsus Augustine of the Argosy Special Operations Eagle Lancers Regiment."
"He's more than just a High Guard officer," Tyr growled, taking in the Nietzschean's gauntlet markings. "He's a member of the Drago-Kazov Pride."
A force lance, gauss rifle and power ring came up.
The pistols remained at the major's sides.
An obsidian eyebrow rose. "My 'family' betrayed me years before they ever considered betraying the Commonwealth. Now, they have done so once again."
Dylan kept his force lance trained on Tarsus. "How are you still alive?"
Apparently ignoring the weapons aimed at him, the Nietzschean officer nodded over to a pod on the far side of the chamber. "Stasis. About thirty of us. We moved a pod in here so that one of us could guard Command, programmed it to open if the others were in trouble or intruders got onboard. How long have I been out, anyway?"
Dylan winced as he lowered the lance. "About three hundred years."
Tarsus stared at him as he turned to leave the command centre. "The rebellion still hasn't been ended?"
"Nietzschean Tactical Offensive," Tyr corrected.
The Major reached into a nearby locker, retrieving a new force lance as he stared at Tyr. "The point stands, and just who the hell is he?"
Dylan smiled as reassuringly as possible. "They're members of my crew. It's a long story, but for now—"
"—for now we need to stop the Eyrie from getting overrun," he agreed. "But we're going to need to have a talk later, Captain."
"I look forward to it Major."
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"Way to go Rommie!" Harper whooped, even buried as he was in the depths of a conduit. The Nietzschean fleet was withdrawing, fully half their number and more reduced to burning wrecks and clouds of debris.
"'Course, you know what this means," Beka called over to him, not taking her eyes from her piloting for an instant.
"We're gonna haveta throw one helluva party to celebrate?" he asked hopefully.
She laughed at this, dodging missile fire. "Not what I was thinking of...but not a bad idea come to think of it. No, if they escape they'll know the location of the Eyrie. If they don't already, that is."
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As they approached a junction in the corridor, the four leading Nietzscheans in the platoon literally disintegrated as a pair of gauss pistols were emptied into their bodies. Then a whirlwind crimson blur of death was among them, stabbing, punching, kicking and throttling.
Tarsus Augustine fought like a man possessed, a feeling far deeper than mere rage or hatred fuelling the fires within him. Dylan was quite unable to fully recognise it as he stepped out into the corridor-turned-killing-ground and shot down a pair of soldiers even as they drew beads on the Eagle Lancer. The Major caught his eye, nodded his thanks, then drove his bone blades through the helmet and into the skull of another Dragan soldier.
A squad in fully sealed armour appeared behind them, and fired an unusually-shaped weapon at Trance.
Strangely, the beam was not intercepted by a shield as usual. Stranger still—and something of a relief to all, especially Trance—it did her no harm.
Smiling sweetly at the squad, she extended her left hand before her, intending to restrain them. Hopefully they'd be able to find out what the weapon was supposed to have done after the battle, for it was quite surely not working—
—a little green spark leapt from her ring. She frowned, focussed her will harder—
—nothing happened.
Her ring was useless. Drained.
She ducked as Tyr exchanged a fire with the squad, gauss rounds gouging great holes in the walls, floor and ceiling.
What had happened?
A Dragan leapt, snarling. Tyr, pinned down, was unable to aid her.
He landed heavily, bone blades slashing through the air where her head had been barely a second before. She'd flipped herself bodily backwards, heels over head. Instinctively, Trance flung out her hands to ward off his second blow—
—his screams as the shadowy flames burned him alive echoed sickeningly within the confines of the corridor, easily drowning out the din of weapons' fire and Augustine's butchery.
She stared at her hands, then down at the rest of her body, eyes widening in shock.
Her body, wreathed in flames, flickered and danced with inner shadows.
Just as the Spirit of the Abyss had.
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Cuchulain grinned privately to himself even as his commodore's transmission dissolved into static, an emerald energy beam sweeping through the flagship's bridge, cutting him off.
The operation had gone rather well, on the whole.
The Eyrie's location was confirmed. The device worked.
The loss of one of the most incompetent fleet groups in the entire Drago-Kazov navy was, when you thought about it, an inconsequential price to pay for such information.
"I believe congratulations are in order," Justinian Galeazzo smiled lightly as he emerged from the shadows.
"You could be right," Cuchulain returned the smile as he poured himself a glass of water. He didn't offer one to his guest—he used the term only in the loosest sense of the word, for Galeazzo had not been invited to enter his office, nor had he even detected his entry—for the Scipion, like the rest of his Pride, would most certainly refuse it in a polite but definite fashion. He chuckled as he sipped from the glass; that Pride trusted only itself, and even then just barely. "You could be right."
Carmagnola's agent nodded toward the now-blank screen atop the desk. "Both rings vulnerable. Provided nothing goes wrong during the operation, of course."
The Fleet Marshal grimaced at the reminder of Acheron. "That is always a possibility of some sort, no matter the circumstances of the operation."
He knew better than to enquire as to Carmagnola's whereabouts; why he had not arrived for something so significant to his Pride.
"One problem, Fleet Marshal." He stared at the other Nietzschean, doubt already working its way into his mind. "Your Pride. Your senior officers, to be precise."
"Your meaning?"
Galeazzo simply shrugged, elegant features remaining carefully schooled in a blank and inanimate mask. "They regard this as a failure."
He raised an incredulous eyebrow. "A failure? Well, in one sense, but—"
"My Pride does not even, strictly speaking, exist. That fleet's losses and the—as they already view it—disaster at Acheron, no matter how impossible the circumstances, is something they regard most poorly. It will not be borne."
Cuchulain forced himself to maintain his mask of calmness, though he knew the Scipion would know the truth of his mind. "Carmagnola—"
"My Pride made no assurances to you, Fleet Marshal. Nor will we defy the decisions of another Pride's military hierarchy."
Cuchulain's concentration collapsed; he growled at the agent. "I have worked with—"
"True, you have been most useful to us. But now your usefulness is ended." The agent shrugged, his ankle-length black leather trenchcoat swaying ever so slightly with the motion. "We have nothing to discuss."
Cuchulain glared at him, bone blades standing erect as his hands folded into fists. "Get me out of here then. I can still be useful to your Pride, in other ways."
"Good bye, Fleet Marshal," Galeazzo calmly replied as he swept past.
Cuchulain's palm dagger slid easily into his gut.
Blood poured from the corners of the stricken man's mouth. Cuchulain grimaced as he applied yet further force, driving the blade deeper, twisting it up and into his lower intestinal tract. Some organ that was not typically found in a Nietzschean's anatomy ruptured—probably some addition to make the dealing of death easier.
"Well played!" The laughter of Giovanni Braccio echoed along with his applause about Cuchulain's office.
"What do you want?" Cuchulain spat, tearing the blade from the corpse and stepping back a pace as it thudded into the carpet.
The almost gaudily dressed Nietzschean appeared, quite literally, from nowhere.
Of all his Pride, he was undeniably the most skilled in stealth. Even Carmagnola acknowledged this. Cuchulain knew he had also been eying Galeazzo's position and status for almost a year now—a considerable length of time indeed among the Scipion ranks.
"Come now—what? no delight? no joy to see me? I'm almost insulted. As you wish; to business then!" he practically bounded over to a seat and flopped down into it. "I'm here to make you an offer. A position, to be exact. A new Pride."
Cuchulain leaned forward on the back of another empty seat, eyes glittering with interest.
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All was silent on Andromeda's observation deck as Dylan entered that night.
A lone silhouette was visible in the dimmed lights, leaning on the rail, head bowed.
He leaned against the rail beside the Nietzschean officer. He noted with not a little curiosity that he was studying something intently.
A photograph, to be exact.
A slightly younger Tarsus Augustine and a strikingly attractive young human woman with flame red tumbling tresses smiled out from the picture, resplendent in their High Guard dress uniforms—his, that of a Lancer, hers of a surgeon. Golden Double Helixes encircled their upper arms, gleaming brightly.
"They killed them." The words hung heavily in the air as Tarsus turned to face Dylan. "My friends. My... family.
"My wife and my unborn daughter. Murdered, and I was helpless to save them." He closed his eyes, denying passage to as-yet unwept tears. "They all died when their stasis pods failed. Two hundred years ago!"
When his eyes opened, two salty tears burned their sorrowful trail across his cheeks. "Of us all, whoever was guarding the command centre was the one least expected to survive." He smiled bitterly. "I...lost...and drew that duty."
He turned, leaning against the rail with his back to the stars. "I have awoken from my cold and bitter slumbers, Captain Hunt. Awoken to hell."
"It may be hell now. But we can change that."
At these words, a smile—true and warm—worked its path across the Nietzschean's face. "I suppose we can."
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Well, my fine readers, there you have it! Now wasn't that little lot worth waiting two weeks for? Huh? Not one, not two, but three chapters, and none of 'em lightweights. Many new players added to this intricate theatre. Feedback is, as always, very much appreciated and treasured. What do you think?
Trance still has a little power left over from what she absorbed from the Spirit of the Abyss, Acheron's been knocked about a bit, but I daresay the Dragans could get it back into working order if they put their minds to the task, and Rommie's getting the hang of her imagination and power ring—becoming a little more...human ...perhaps? What do you reckon?
The Scipio Pride and Carmagnola Pertinax will most certainly be showing up from time to time—what do you guys think of them? Any ideas? Is there something that you'd like to see happen (anything except casual destruction is acceptable. If a character is to die, there should be some sort of reason)? A meeting between Carmagnola and Dylan, perhaps? What if Charlemagne Bolivar should encounter Carmagnola, the man who murdered his younger brother and exterminated all trace of his genes? How does Carmagnola get on with other Nietzschean Prides from a business standpoint? If you got ideas, I'm interested in 'em.
And I could really do with some opinions on Tarsus—any ideas? Preferences? Does anyone want him clobbered off, paired up, or what? If you like him, call me. You hate his guts, call me. You think he could be written better, call me. Without feedback, I can't respond to your preferences 'cos I won't know 'em. Oh, and if anyone wants Tarsus paired up, I cannot stress enough the importance of specifying WHO WITH. This is very important. Everyone's available right now, though like I said earlier, this ain't friggin' pornography I'm writing here. If you want a love story involving Tarsus or any other character, let me know and I'll take a butchers' at what you've got. Hey, as I said earlier I like a good romance and I'm far from averse to writing one myself.
To all Trance fans; yes, I know it was a bit cruel to put her through that in Chapter Five, but I wasn't able to deploy telepaths to take over her mind (if she is even vulnerable to such an assault) partly because I don't really know of any species in the Andromeda universe that can do that except possibly hers, the Spirit of the Abyss is the only energy-draining being in the milieu and as I've already done a showdown with that bastard before a second one so soon wouldn't make for interesting reading, and it's Kyle's old ring she's got so yellow isn't a weakness anymore (can any GL fan honestly say that there was ever a good reason given for how the hell that one came about? Sure I haven't read many of the old GL comics—certainly nothing pre-Crisis on Infinite Earths—but as weaknesses go that one was crap. I was most relieved when it was removed with Kyle's souped-up and remodelled ring.).
Yeah, I know Prometheus once used something he called 'neural chaff' on Kyle whilst systematically taking down the JLA but there was never anything resembling an explanation for that one. And before you go ranting at how I could've come up with something new, I didn't have the time. The main point of this batch was the Eagle's Eyrie and a certain Nietzschean major, and I wanted to keep things moving. Introducing a new species would've taken time and delayed this posting even more, and I doubt anyone wanted that, hmm?
I can assure you the next chapter will be inside of a week from now, but I gotta write the thing first. Got a few ideas, although the next posting's gonna be nowhere near as big as this one (flexes numb fingers and just barely avoids screaming in agony from the cramp). It'll still be a good size, but not a leviathan like these three. I must say, I am knackered from this. And the A-level results are out this week...! (desperately struggles to fight off heart attack).
The next chapter, without giving too much away, will be focussing a bit more on the new GL's. I know these last three chapters have wandered a bit, but trust me this is all going to turn out to have been necessary. The Eyrie and Tarsus both have secrets that will come up later, and Carmagnola will be back—just not any time too soon.
Concerning the rather more distant future: I've got a vague plan, nice and flexible to allow for readers' suggestions and various situations that might arise in the narrative, so this fanfic's going to be running for a while. Alliances, new enemies...and other aspects of DC Comics' milieu will take their effect (eventually). With regard to when these events occur (yeah, so they're a way off, but you get the point), all readers who're into DC Comics may want to bear in mind that the latest DC material I've got my hands on is GL: New Journey, Old Path and JLA: Golden Perfect. I've heard a few rumours about Kyle almost doing a Parallax but creating a new bunch of Guardians instead and something about a new cozzy. As I haven't seen the damn thing, that's why I've stuck him with his usual uniform back from the days he was alive and kept the references to his power upgrade to a minimum.
To all readers: send in your ideas! I've got plenty of openings deliberately left for this express purpose. I'm already fiddling with half a dozen pages exploring X-Over and The Mad Dragon's ideas (yeah, the avatar idea was the original one that I ended up abandoning, but I'm having another bash at it). Come on, you got an opportunity to influence this whole thing—have a go!
And now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna just play back 'Pulp Fiction' which I taped off the BBC the other week. To paraphrase the good Jules, 'I should be dead, man.' Ye gods I need a bloody break...still, no worries, eh?