ACT III | THE TYRANT'S HUBRIS
CHAPTER XIX | REVELATION
THE CELESTIAL MOUNTAINS | MARS
Osiris sat on a stone bench, arms crossed and eyes sharply staring forward.
Away from his compatriots´ encampment, the rare moment of silence and calm allowed his thoughts to turn inward. The past days had been hectic, as the moment when the Guardians revealed themselves to the world and waged war against the Triumvirate rapidly approached.
Seldom had he allowed himself a moment of reprieve, as he found himself immersed in his element once again by helping forge an army unlike the world had ever seen.
And here he sat, on a stone bench.
His ears were soothed by the soft crash of a waterfall behind him, with colorful fish and other forms of life he could not immediately classify frolicking in the crystal clear lake at its base.
His skin was graced by gentle winds, carrying petals plucked from ethereal flowers into the horizon, where the mighty Sun was beginning to set on the horizon.
Yet his eyes remained fixated firmly on the ground in front of his feet.
Beneath his stoic expression, Osiris could appreciate the unintentional humor in the situation he found himself in.
Here he was, surrounded by what he could call objective beauty. Perfection produced by a deity´s design, hand-crafted to appeal to Human sensibilities.
Created to soothe.
To help one meditate. Be at ease.
But he could do no such thing.
A knot had formed inside his stomach, as his eyes remained unmoving from the spot he had chosen to observe.
The time had finally arrived.
Osiris would have been lying to himself if he tried to pretend he was looking forward to his meeting with the Traveler.
His anxiety was not the product of any doubts about Her motives or allegiances, as by this point Her benevolence and willingness to aid their cause were evident.
No, his unease came from the fact that he would be alone with Her.
He had been in the Traveler´s presence before, but he had not been there alone.
Her gaze had not fallen upon him in its totality.
And after first contact, he had thrown himself into his work once again.
The Traveler was yet another factor to consider. There was a war to wage. Battles to fight. Strategies to plan. Men and women to kill and to die.
The Triumvirate, as ironic as it sounded, was the one constant in his life. The one unmoving, insurmountable foe that he gave his life to defeat. But that defeat had always been more of a dream. A distant, faint conclusion he not only did not think he would ever see, but was not entirely convinced was even possible.
Until it was.
For most of his life, faith was a distant thing. Until it became a useless thing. Faith did not stop bullets. Faith did not summon lightning from the sky. Faith did not bring miracles to life.
A thousand hands in prayer couldn't lift a rock.
Alone and silent, in near religious reverence, he wondered if this is how it felt for those of faith. The implications of it. The scale of it. The sanctity and weight.
Magnified to the weight of a blistering star.
Alone and silent, he pondered on the implications the Traveler´s mere existence posed. The war against the Triumvirate, the one thing that gave his life meaning, was ultimately so pitifully, laughably inconsequential in the scheme of what he was now a part of.
He had never been a religious man. The things he had done and had seen were enough to burn any remnants of faith he once held into ashes.
But now the ashes stoked.
Embers burnt in him.
And now he was going to speak alone, with what he could not call anything but a god. Even that seemed an insult. A grievous lie.
A god?
For all his life, he'd heard an oath roared as if the heavens would fall at their weight.
I witness to one God alone.
Now he witnessed one with his own eyes, and his heart. Wondering how he'd ever lived without it. Without Her.
Without this burning need.
His smile was thin; toothless.
Hamaza would have been a better fit for this than him. He could have made sense of the Traveler in a way he was simply unable to. He could have interpreted any message She would have provided with learned understanding. He would have helped to answer the many questions swirling silently inside his head.
He and Valentin would have been the leaders the Guardians needed.
He was a soldier. A killer.
He did not create. He would only destroy. Take.
A weapon did not need to think or feel. A weapon need only be aimed and fired.
How he wished he could go back to work.
Return to the encampment, keep doing the things he knew.
Instead of facing everything he didn't.
"[That is why you are here,]" chirped Sagira. He did not notice her return, alone with his thoughts as he was.
"[Is She ready?]" He asked curtly, lifting his eyes from the ground and fixing his posture.
Silence stretched for long moments, as the Ghost placed her eye upon the man which served as her charge. His face, ever a stern, stoic façade; the waves of tension, coiled deep underneath as a spring ready to burst, betrayed by the bags under his eyes. Finally, she found the right answer and approach, even if her charge would surely find them grating.
"[You know, you don't have to pretend with me,]" answered Sagira, the fins and horns of her shell spinning as if to mark the point. Osiris flinched as her words cut through his attempt to place back the mask. He was still not used to her listening in to his thoughts. Knowing that he was no longer ever truly alone.
Intimacy was not something he had allowed himself to share with anyone for as long as he could remember. Not useful or necessary in his line of work. Even his friends he kept at a distance. It'd always been easier that way.
Sagira sighed playfully at his silence. "[Yes, She is ready to receive you. Make your way to the cave and touch the sphere on top of the altar at its center. She will do the rest.]"
He steeled himself and stood up from the bench, but as he began to take his first steps, Sagira floated ahead of him at eye level, stopping him.
"[Osiris. I´ll stay by your side.]"
Something about the unusual seriousness in her tone gave him comfort. A welcome sign that she understood the thoughts clouding his focus. Not through dismissal, but through support.
He nodded, unspoken sentiment evident through their mental bond.
Osiris walked into the entrance of the cave, Sagira hovering above his right shoulder. His steps sure and his pace quickened, it did not take long for the pair to reach its inside. And there, not far away from view or reach, sat the altar.
It was simple, almost inconspicuous in its design, save for one detail that caught his attention as he drew closer and closer. Lining the white stone was a silver metal, woven in intricate filigree which formed unknown letters and alien symbols. He stepped closer to look at the symbology etched on a wall, when he noticed the metal seemed alive. It rose and fell, up and down, slowly, imperceptibly, as if it were breathing.
He had seldom found the time before, but he wondered just how many mysteries the Traveler had seeded this world with. Just under their noses, waiting to be discovered, ready to be understood.
A curiosity for another time. Perhaps during a lull between training exercises he could send a team to harvest some of it and study its properties. Something told him material like that would be capable of far more than merely forging sturdy armor or effective weapons.
But he had stalled enough. It was time to do what he had come for. He walked up the small flight of stairs near the center of the room, and approached the eponymous altar that served as its showpiece. An alabaster sphere, not unlike the Traveler Herself, waited for his touch.
"[Let's get this over with,]" said the middle aged man as he placed a hand on the smooth surface and felt a warm hum of energy begin to flow through his body.
Sagira´s fins began to spin and twitch, in almost excited mischief that made Osiris raise his eyebrow in almost disguised worry.
"[See you on Mercury!]" The Ghost almost giggled as a pillar of bright golden Light descended from the sky and swallowed her form.
Mercury?
Osiris had barely enough time to try and process what she had just said before the column of Light came for him next.
CALORIS BASIN | MERCURY
In an instant, faster than the mere moment it would have taken him to blink, Osiris found himself face down over a pile of scorched sand.
He sat up, wiping the coarse and irritating substance from his face and clothes.
And as he did so, the words he had heard before the world turned white became tangible.
Mercury.
It couldn't be.
He looked up, incredulously at first, but soon found his mouth opening at the sheer awe and magnitude of what hung above his head.
The Sun.
The Sun!
The titanic star, progenitor of life for his species, object of worship and admiration for countless cultures and civilizations, sat majestic over the horizon.
A flowing combination of tempered orange, wrathful red and gilded yellow, the visage of the mighty celestial in an instant made him truly understand just how ridiculously small he was.
How small his worries, how small his wishes, how small his planet, how small his people were.
Here, in the presence of the object which had overseen the very formation of his home. Here, in the presence of the star that had existed before and would outlive history itself.
A dream. It could not be anything else.
And yet, he could gaze, with his two eyes, at its brilliance without being immediately blinded.
And yet, he could stand, with his two legs, in its presence without swiftly being burnt into ashes.
And yet, he could behold, with his astonished mind, astronomical phenomena his people could only appreciate through telescopes and crude imagery.
Impossible.
This was impossible.
"[What an ugly word that is.]" Sagira´s voice somehow reached his ears, only somewhat removing him from the breathtaking sight. It was only then that he realized he was sweating profusely, the heat tolerable yet increasingly turning overwhelming. He quickly conjured a field of Light around himself; a ward to keep himself alive.
"[How?]" was all that he was able to stammer. He must have looked completely out of character to her. His bulging, wide eyes. His mouth agape in dumbstruck stupor. But he did not care. Did not care to hide the raw feeling coursing through his body. This ember, finally lit.
"[Well, Mars was also a lifeless rock before She got to it, wasn't it? This is more of a work in progress, but the foundations are in place.]" Answered the Ghost, floating above him, as if to indicate the area.
The foundations are in place?
The casual air with which Sagira described the greatest marvel he had ever laid eyes upon subtly informed him of the sheer power the Traveler commanded in a much more effective way than any banal show of force could ever get close to.
Mars was a wonder.
But this?
A miracle.
And that miracle was simply the beginning of a much greater work. The pillars upon which this world would be mounted. Sagira´s words reminded him of those of an architect, detailing, planning, drawing up the design of something that was not, but soon would be.
And perhaps it was this, above all other things he had suspected and observed, that served as Her purpose.
As if in sync with his thoughts, Sagira twirled and spun, ever expressive. "[Yes! You're beginning to see why She brought you here!]"
Those words made his gaze finally lower from the star before him.
It was easy to destroy. Easy to tear down what had been the painstaking work of someone else. He would know, for he was very good at it.
But to create, to design. That was much more worthy of admiration.
In his moments alone he'd thought about the man he could have been; what he'd once wanted to pursue. To learn, discover, create, and make the world better.
But that wasn't him.
That wasn't his role.
It was something he could never do.
But surely She would know that, would She not?
"[Sagira,]" he began. "[If the Traveler believes I am more than a soldier, then She may be mistaken.]" There was sincerity in his voice, and yet, something else. Something much older.
Regret.
"[I don't think so,]" answered the Ghost without hesitation or pause. "[You have said what you wanted to be, remember? I have seen you work, how you have treated others. And you know this as well. You simply have difficulty accepting it can be different.]" She floated a bit closer. "[That you can be different.]"
He crossed his arms and met her gaze, his own Light´s radiance opaqued by the depths of the Sun.
"What I could have been is not what I am. I am a soldier".
He shook his head.
"[I fight.]"
Skirmishes. The crack of his rifle. The weight of the trigger. The whizz of bullets flying by his head. The chemical bitterness of gunpowder. The long nights planning out operations.
"[I kill.]"
The copper taste. The bitter and sweet smells. The screams of the wounded. The wails of the damned. The pleading of denial. The silence of acceptance. Innocents. Deserving. Collateral. Confirmed targets. The graves. The fields of graves.
"[I am owed nothing else.]"
For the first time in years, he felt old. Felt the deepening bags under his eyes. Felt the weight of a thousand corpses upon his shoulders. Felt the thousands more yet to kill and to bury. Felt the sheer impossibility of the mission upon him.
"[Are you sure that there is nothing else?]" Sagira´s voice was soothing. Gentle. Caring.
But above all, knowing.
He couldn't hide. Not from her.
He closed his eyes. He began to drift back to something. Older than the wars. Older than the mission.
Older than Osiris.
He stopped himself.
He knew better than to open old wounds. It served no purpose. It would not undo what was long past. It would not bring them back.
"[No.]" he answered her. He meant to sound decisive. Confident. Sure of himself, to let her know what he said was the truth. But the sound that left his lips was more of a murmur. A whisper, that let Sagira know all she needed to know without having to peek inside his mind.
"[Well. All in due time.]" Sagira said softly, not seeking to force the conversation or touch the unspoken topic which hung thick on the solar charged winds.
"[But for now…]" droned off Sagira, causing Osiris to raise an eyebrow as the topic suddenly shifted.
It was then that something emerged from within the Sun. A white outline began to break the star´s molten surface, much to his own shock and surprise. He quickly realized what, no, not what, who this object was.
The Traveler.
Slowly Her complete form began to materialize, not unlike a submarine rising from the depths of the sea. The Sun´s unfathomable heat rendered utterly harmless against Her flawless shell. Coronal eruptions, flares of raging plasma, the titan´s untamed fury that had been the awe of every human that had ever gazed upon it, made to weave and wave around the Traveler, as if she were commanding their very eruptions.
Before long, She stopped in the sky near the planet's surface, the cavity left in its molten surface knitting itself shut, as if the Traveler had never emerged from within it.
Sagira perched herself on Osiris´s shoulder and whispered in a mirthful tone, enjoying the second time today he had been rendered speechless.
"[She is here for you. And I think you need to see what She will show you.]"
Osiris stood before the deity from beyond the cosmos, the sheer majesty of the Traveler before him. Golden wisps of Light, each holding power unfathomable in its scale, emanated from Her shell, his mind reminded of the mighty storms of an untamable titan such as Jupiter.
Unknowable glyphs of crystalline azure lined Her shell, shifting and flowing like water, responding to his every effort to understand their meaning through observation.
The Sun´s unforgiving heat which assaulted every inch of his skin before he had shielded himself was reduced to a paltry concern in Her presence, as the star´s bright radiance seemed to be drawn towards the Traveler.
The overwhelming presence of the star peeled away as if but a veil, leaving behind only the peace of the night sky, studded in blinking, colorful stars. Above him she hovered, an eclipse that commanded all those present.
The ground under his feet trembled and the thin air became charged with a sensation Osiris could not see, but could feel deep within as every singular atom of his body began to sing, his mind suddenly made aware of each minute structure which comprised his flesh and his bones and their newfound voice.
His surroundings followed, the sands of Mercury flowing like water underneath his feet. Golden rivers poured from all corners of the supposedly barren planet, called to converge alongside powerful winds which threatened to sweep him away and into the maelstrom forming around the Traveler.
Even the distant stars in the black skies were roused to join the spectacle, blinking in and out like drowsy eyes made to wake from a millenia old slumber.
He shut his eyes tightly in terror as he realized the Traveler´s choir beckoned all the fundamental forces of the cosmos to obey Her will and direction. Her hand held the conductor's baton, and the universe would happily shed any semblance of order or structure to please and obey its master.
The laws of physics, pillars upon which Humanity based its small understanding upon were but mere suggestions, considered yet cast aside.
He could hear the song, discordant and incomprehensible. A garbled mixture of sensations, sounds and thoughts which scrambled his brain and yet somehow called with an irresistible pull towards everything and everyone in the vicinity of the deity.
He screamed colors as his body dissolved into a mesh of concepts, mass and narrative. Every fiber of what made him Osiris eagerly deconstructing itself to join the vortex of chaos and raw creation which orbited around the alabaster star.
And somehow, even though his brain was but a puddle of neurons swimming with the currents, and his ears were but a bundle of dancing cartilages and nerves, he heard Sagira´s voice, echoing throughout the vortex, far away and close, everywhere and nowhere, proud and strong, meek and meager.
Do not fight it. Of the choir you were made. To the choir you return. You are part of the anthem.
He focused on her words. Scattered as he was, his self but a rebelling collective of components, he strained to understand the song and its indecipherable complexities.
But he was growing tired, exhausting himself trying to hold on to any semblance of control or agency he had left, even as his flesh transmuted into chemicals and elements far beyond the periodic table with every panicked breath his separated lungs took.
The Light, the true Light, that which only the Traveler could command and embody, was a continent to the single grain of sand on the metaphorical, or perhaps the rapidly physical, beach he was.
A small bird uselessly flailing against the currents of a tornado.
But perhaps, he did not need to resist. As Sagira had said, fighting this would be pointless.
So he gave in.
Despite his own anxiety and horror as to the possibilities this could entail - he gave in.
He was but a conduit. A guest to this work, far from the master. And in that moment, it was all he needed to be.
As in response to his thoughts, the chaotic cacophony slowly became but a harmonious wave. The sounds, the colors, the sensations, the things he could not describe or understand slowly began to settle into cohesive forms. The violent maelstrom now a furious and swift torrent of thoughts and considerations.
Where once he beheld insanity, he now could see options; he could see the possibilities. Vistas of paradises, magnificent geological formations, fauna and flora borne of the mind of an abstract artist, and yet each with a place and role in mind. Each a window that came and went with frustrating swiftness as Osiris attempted to hold on to each for further understanding.
Soon, he came to realize that each image, concept and idea that flew by with fleeting presence was but a possibility. An option, and for what he came to realize as each image featured a proud Sun hanging tranquil over blue skies in all its blazing glory.
Is this what you see, Valentin?
He had asked Valentin once why he'd continued wearing the mask; what he saw when it did not rest on his face. Valentin's explanation had been short. It had kept him grounded, he said, and without the mask, he could see everything. He had described it in a single; simple word.
Luminous.
Now Osiris understood it. And understood what this was to be.
The terraforming of Mercury.
This was the mind of the architect. The mental space where all was considered, discarded or adapted in order to birth something that fit Her personal standard. A work unlike any before, complex and breathtaking.
Her mind moved at speeds and dimensions that equally amazed and unsettled him. He had been afforded the privilege to accompany the Traveler in this most intimate of moments. Away from wars, enemies, apocalypses and Guardians to mobilize. Here, in this isolated moment, She could be Herself. Do what She was intended to accomplish, or perhaps what She desired the most.
He was Humanizing Her, he surmised as he peered into this grand process; ascribing familiar actions to a mind that was anything but familiar. Yet he could not help but feel a kinship with the alien entity. So many days and nights he had spent putting his intellect and intuition to the test with each operation he was asked to design and each strategic meeting he had been a part of.
He was proud of his work, grim as it had been, and he felt a familiar sense of equal part satisfaction and equal part frustration, or what his brain sensed as such, emanating from the Traveler as She slowly settled upon her favored options for the work at hand.
But despite his newfound understanding of the entity, Osiris felt a pang of pain as he bitterly accepted that the work he was so proud of was but simple destruction. Such was easy, but this, the Traveler´s work, was something he could ever match even should he try to emulate it.
No, better to be what he had chosen to be. A warrior. A Guardian.
"[Do you still believe that's the only reason you were chosen?]" Began Sagira who materialized at his side, a touch of exasperation in her voice.
"[You wield the Light, and the only thing you think you are good for is killing? That this is all you believe you can do with it? I know Humans can be simpleminded, but you should not be among their number, Osiris," Sagira quipped teasingly.
Osiris began to formulate a retort to Sagira´s remarks, before he was cut off mid thought by the Ghost.
"[Now, enough of that. She wanted you here for a reason, remember. But first, make yourself presentable!]" Sagira said as her azure eye scanned up and down the mass of unsightly substances formally known as Osiris, his life somehow preserved by the power of the Traveler.
Ah, he had forgotten to reassemble his body, entranced as he was by the inner workings of the Traveler´s creative process.
He focused his Light into each piece of his scattered self, bringing each into a pile that was still swept by the storm of Her will.
He could have simply mended each piece back into a whole slowly and tediously, but inspiration struck him as he remembered the awe he had felt when first seeing the Sun´s totality with his own two eyes.
His mind's eye set, Osiris encased his remains within a cocoon of molten flame and in a flash of bright Light burst open the solar womb, reborn and renewed once more.
In that exact moment, the storm ceased, and the triumphant Osiris was unceremoniously tossed back into the ashen sands of Mercury.
With slight annoyance, he lifted himself from the ground.
And raised his gaze right into the form of a woman born from the coronal flares.
Osiris stumbled back, somehow caught off guard despite the things he had seen and experienced.
He considered demanding an explanation from the entity before him, as his rattled reaction grew with worry as he realized the Traveler had vanished from the dark skies. The Sun was still dimmed, and Sagira failed to answer or appear when he called her through their bond.
He was alone here.
The woman turned around. Her body was molten, leaving droppings of blazing magma that burned through the sands as she approached Osiris.
Her shape was unmistakably humanoid, but was as the outline of a person filled with the contents of the Sun. Piercing blue eyes met his, waxing and waning with the flux and rhythm of a pulsating star.
Her hair was a mane of bright fire crowning a head surrounded by a halo with eight points. The exact same pattern his Ghost´s shell bore in gold.
"Sagira?" said Osiris slowly. Unsure of his own words but ignorant of any other possibilities.
|| A star in my constellation ||
The thought was projected into his head with Sagira´s voice initially, before layers upon layers of different voices stacked on top of it as the words continued. The voice that finished the message was unmistakably female, but with a depth and weight to it which gave him pause and made his eyes widen in its gravitas.
He instantly knew who this was.
The Traveler smiled at his realization and turned Her sight toward the Sun, dimmed in Her presence yet radiant for all who led their daily lives back on that small blue planet he called home, unaware of what was occurring so far away in the heavens.
She sat on the taupe sands, still gazing at the star which allowed life to exist within this system, and beckoned with a hand for Osiris to sit alongside Her.
Incredulous at the absurdity of sitting beside one he could only call a god, one who had so effortlessly turned his understanding of reality inside out mere moments before, Osiris approached with slow, awkward steps.
He ponderously, cautiously took his seat at Her side, never taking his eyes off Her form. Eyes filled with both reverence and near paralyzing anxiety.
He had once been a religious man, to a degree. A youth raised into his family's faith.
But prayer had never really done much to him. He'd never felt the point of it. It didn't fix the world. It didn't change the way things worked. But he followed.
He followed, and asked. "Why do we pray?"
He was a man who had no comprehension then.
"We pray for answer," was the reply of unbreakable faith
Unbreakable faith shattered by the Triumvirate and events he seldom dwelled on, else he reopen old wounds.
Now he stood before an answer.
An answer that deafened.
Now, as he reached the advanced years of his life, after he had molded himself into being a practical, pragmatic man, he found himself face to face with Her.
Now, he had comprehension. Terrible comprehension.
He was to sit beside a god. An actual god. Not the stone idols of the tribes. Not the mythological bull headed god creatures of tale. Not the things formed of compounded ideas from Man's head, turned to an item of worship.
Not stories crafted by mankind to better give context and meaning to solitude of existence, by ancient men of ignorance.
Something beyond.
Not the gods one prayed to for deliverance that would never actually come, but a being who brought forth miracles as naturally as man took breaths of air.
Something only a few men had ever comprehended in history.
If there was a God, it was beyond. So far beyond, the oceans could be turned to ink, and rendered to word, and they would yet come short. Stone gods and mythos gods and tale gods never could grant deliverance.
Now he saw. What terrible revelation it was, how it removed all doubt. Erased so many questions, how it set his soul ablaze.
For he now stood before the god that gave deliverance.
His soul.
How it made so little sense.
How everything he'd thought had turned upside down.
Despite everything that had happened up to that point, it was here that the lump in his throat returned with all its irritating stubbornness.
He sat there, on the warm sands of a barren planet, beside a divine woman made of molten magma, watching the Sun in silence and somehow not being incinerated to a miniscule crisp.
None of this made sense.
But perhaps it did not need to.
Osiris waited.
He told himself to go with the flow of the situation despite his reservations and many questions. This was what had allowed him to navigate Her labyrinthian thoughts, so perhaps it was key to this test he was undertaking.
But the Traveler´s silence as She contemplated the star only made the moment more tense for Osiris.
Osiris waited.
His mind wandered to the vivid visions Valentin had spoken of when he had returned from his own audience, and he wondered what revelations She would impart upon him. What ancient wisdom or horrifying truth She would place upon his shoulders. Perhaps what role and what tasks She expected of him.
Many possibilities, but only one right answer.
Finally, Her gaze broke from the Sun and was cast downward, at the dunes.
With one blazing hand, she grasped a clump of sand that somehow did not turn into glass in Her scorching grasp.
|| The foundation is in place ||
She let the sand fall from Her hand and crossed Her arms. Her golden eyebrows furrowed and She narrowed Her eyes, seemingly deep in thought.
An expression Osiris knew all too well, for it was one he naturally turned to during moments of contemplation or planning.
He turned towards Her.
"[What's wrong?]" It felt strange to ask such a question to a deity, but the fact that She was mirroring his own body language was not lost on him. Perhaps this was Her attempt to connect. To put him at ease.
Still, intentions aside, he recognized the emotions reflected on Her face. He was called here for a reason, and perhaps She required his counsel in some sort of way, as ridiculous as that sounded.
She stood from the sands, and began to pace. Her right hand cupped Her chin and Her left arm remained crossed as She looked downwards, still lost in thought.
Well, the mimicry of his expressions was definitely deliberate then, but he paid no mind.
|| There is something missing ||
Her eyes suddenly lifted from the ground. A sparkle, bright and beautiful as a comet, alight in Her expression. The moment where inspiration struck. The satisfaction of brilliance.
He could not help but smile at this. Even if this was but an attempt to placate him, he could not help but find kinship with the entity. She reminded him of a younger version of himself, full of energy and prone to moments of inventiveness which led to many early victories against the Triumvirate.
A version of himself which eroded with age, but he still had his moments here and there.
She turned to him, and he stood up in response.
|| Would you like to assist me? ||
Her genuine, friendly smile and the nature of the question posed puzzled him. The context behind this audience suggested the topic would not be related to the Triumvirate, the war soon to be waged on Earth, or the organization of the fledgling Guardians.
And if the required assistance was not related to these matters, then he wondered how he could be possibly of use to someone like Her.
Regardless, the question was posed, and it would not be polite to ponder or doubt.
"[How may I be of service?]" he answered in kind, adding a courteous flair to his words, in accordance with Her presence.
She stretched Her hands and waved to Her surroundings.
|| Mercury ||
Osiris pondered on the Traveler´s answer.
Mercury?
The terraforming of the planet?
Sagira had mentioned that the "foundations were in place". And perhaps those very same "foundations" were what allowed him to stand on the surface of the planet and not be burnt to a crisp within microseconds.
However, finally knowing why he was here puzzled him further. How could he even assist with such an undertaking?
"[With respect, I am unsure as to how I can assist with this task.]" he answered formally, as he grew more comfortable speaking to Her with each moment of the exchange.
The Traveler once again did nothing but smile, Her eyes full of empathy. Perhaps this was the answer She was expecting.
|| To create is but to tap into deep held passions ||
|| To give body and weight to that which exists only in desire and dream ||
She glanced again toward the horizon as She spoke, listful eyes looking at something that was not there. Or perhaps it was long gone. A nostalgia Osiris had trained himself to suppress, else it interfere with his mission.
A nostalgia of what Could Have Been.
But looking at Her, or this shockingly Human vessel for Her will, made unwanted emotions and old memories come back with a strength Osiris had not felt in even his most desperate of moments.
He broke himself off the trance as he realized he was staring off into nothing, and the Traveler was looking at him, ever knowing.
|| What I have crafted are but approximations of your wants ||
|| What I learned of your people as I traversed the beyond ||
|| But I lack the muse of your spirit ||
|| The ingredients of your soul ||
|| May you teach me? ||
He closed his eyes as She delivered Her answer. So the wonders She had produced thus far, Mars, Pakistan, all of them were approximations? Informed, yet ultimately insufficient attempts at one true work.
And She decided that She needed to learn more, directly from a Human, to better understand his people.
He was still confused.
Would not Valentin have been preferable? Her Speaker? Perhaps even another of the Guardians? One of the artists or engineers that now resided on Mars? It led to a simple question.
"[Why me?]" he asked the Traveler bluntly. "[You can see into my thoughts. You know where I come from, and you know what I am. There are many others better prepared to give such an answer. That part of me…that turned into something darker. It was forged of necessity, not passion.]" He continued, surprised at himself for having the capacity to touch on this after so many years. But if there was one time where he would be candid, it would be now.
"[Why an old soldier, with a past best left forgotten and a future he forsook? One that only knows how to fight? How to kill? Whose path is set?]" Questions seeming to give in to anger as he threw question upon question upon the Traveler, who an observer might have confused for accusations instead.
She closed Her eyes. An expression of sadness which made Osiris feel guilt for having responded in such a way.
But She knew. She knew everything that he was. He could not hide anything from Her.
She opened Her eyes and approached him. The fire emanating from Her body was nothing but gentle warmth. Her face softened, tender and motherly.
|| I desire not sophistry ||
|| I need not wit and writ ||
She placed a warm hand on his chest, directly over his heart. He looked into Her eyes and held Her gaze for a long moment, no longer afraid.
|| What I seek is this ||
|| May you grant me, oh trustee? ||
|| May you show me? ||
It was a repeat of the question.
Yet somehow it broke through in a way it hadn't the first time. It was much easier for anyone who pressed him to just accept after his pushback. They were unwilling to risk it, unwilling to push forward.
But She wasn't.
He closed his eyes. He went silent. She pushed through, because She knew what he wanted, what he could take. She was intentionally giving him the opportunity to acquire something that he had intentionally denied himself for so long.
Permission.
Permission to remember.
Permission to forgive.
Permission to change into something better.
Permission to look forward.
He had denied it for so long, because he could not afford to do so. There was too much at stake; too much at risk. Such could not be afforded to himself.
And here She was, saying that it was okay.
He had lived in denial for too long. If now was the time to move past; if this was why he was here.
Then he would do so.
For he could not run from his demons forever.
Her request accepted, the Traveler gently grabbed Osiris´s hand, and She allowed Herself to fall into the ground, the surprised man dragged behind Her as the crust and rock parted like water.
The pair tunneled their way through the surface of Mercury, down the mantles of its surface and into the very core of the planet itself.
Osiris opened his eyes, and found that he could somehow breathe, submerged as they were in the dense metals that made the center of the planet.
The Traveler was nowhere to be seen, but Osiris could feel Her presence within the metals of the core, Her form having likely fused with the material.
|| To wield the Light is to gaze behind the curtain of creation ||
|| To peel back the veil over all mystery and question you have ever pondered ||
|| And to then build new wonders ||
Osiris felt his body be encased in brilliant Light, the Traveler´s placing one empowering hand upon his shoulder. Borrowed power coursed through every vein of his body. He felt alive, his every doubt cast to the dustbin of history. His past was not an anchor, but a part of what made him who he was. Now he was ready to face it, to accept it.
|| To wield the Light is to take the universe by the reins ||
|| To behold rigid, unchanging, archaic systems and laws, old visions and chains ||
|| And hone your freedom against them, to hear a song in your veins ||
Her eyes upon his, his sight now extended to every inch of the planet. Toward a tapestry of Light enveloping all corners of the barren world. He extended his will toward the dormant clusters and paracausal webs which needed nothing but a master. A system was already set in place. The engine of creation inherently built into everything within the cosmos and beyond. All he needed to do was to turn the key and kickstart its motion.
He clenched his fists, and within them the very soil and ground of Mercury groaned and obeyed.
|| To wield the Light is to witness cruelty and injustice ||
|| The mocking safety of oppressors and tyrants ||
|| And to break their swords upon your knee, out of a night a light vibrant ||
He snapped his fingers, and strengthened the cocoon of Light the Traveler had placed over the planet, now clear and beautiful for him to see. For the Sun would not unmake his work.
He took a long breath, and exhaled with the might of a thousand hurricanes. Powerful winds rocked the barren sands of the planet, giving elemental structure to the nascent atmosphere and laying the building blocks for life to emerge.
But he desired not to wait for the process to be delayed, and with meditated breaths commanded nitrogen and oxygen to begin forming in the necessary quantities. The first clouds emerged in now blue skies, and the sands of Mercury received their first rain in the planet's history.
|| For nothing is predetermined ||
|| For no outcome is inevitable, nothing ineffable ||
|| And our destiny is ours alone to shape, by all others undetermined ||
He clenched his fists and turned them in a circular motion. The empty sands would be no more. They swirled and turned in a cyclone of fertility, the necessary richness for plant life to take hold imbued upon what once was dead dust.
He turned his fists into palms and raised them, horizons of yellow grass blanketing the sand turned soil in the blink of an eye.
Yellow like the wheat fields he remembered from his distant childhood in Yemen. Fields of wheat he would walk through with his father, then owner of a mill.
Peaceful and sweet smelling, before the Indians came. Before the Triumvirate put to the torch that which was defenseless.
Fields of wheat that now were nothing but ashes. Crushed beneath the boots and tank treads of tyrants.
|| You bear an old name, who weight echoes with shame ||
|| One of final, silent death. One of difficult, costly rebirth ||
|| My trustee who pursues, which will you choose? ||
He extended his fingers and twisted them in complex movements. Perplexing fauna and flora would live amongst the golden fields. Great trees with white, thick barks rose from the ground, magenta leaves crowning their tops. Animals and insects grew from within the grass, their forms familiar, yet alien, sporting exotic colors and adapted to the tropical heat of the planet so close to the star.
He filled great cavities with fresh and saline water, giving rise to great lakes and the two titanic oceans of the world, filled with marine life forms both majestic and intimidating.
He molded the land to include tall mountains, hidden caves and canyons, alluring valleys and other geological forms he invented and hid.
For this would be a planet for adventurers. For eager and daring explorers. For curious minds willing to turn every corner over to find all the secrets he hid.
It reminded him of the romanticized image of his home Australia. The country that had accepted him and his family, offering opportunity and a fresh new beginning. He had spent part of his childhood in Yemen, but he truly grew here. A land of wonder, adventure, and mystery.
A home and sanctuary, until the Chinese came, hungry for conquest.
At the memory, his heart swelled with rage.
Red, hot rage. Burning like the Sun which hung so close above.
He was still little more than a child. Nearly eighteen years of age, when they came.
His father was the first to die, ever dutiful, loyal to the idea of nation, unshaking in his resolve to protect his family. He offered himself to military service, left them with a teary goodbye and a promise to return.
His promise was broken along with the Australian lines.
Himself, foolish and idealistic, joined the resistance. Convinced that they could somehow free their nation from the grip of the Empire.
They came for him and his family. His clandestine actions put them in the sights of the Chinese. He tried to get them out.
But they were gunned down inside their home before he could transport them to a safe house.
Slaughtered coldly and callously, like if they were mere animals. Pests to be put down and forgotten.
As if they did not have names. As if each did not hold dreams and futures.
He returned to his home, only to find it ransacked. Blood pooled on floors that had once seen him and his sisters play. Blood splattered rooms and walls that once had housed happiness.
His failure one he had never been able to forgive himself for, and he filled the hole with hatred.
Sheer, unrestrained hatred for the Triumvirate and all who benefitted from it.
|| Cut through the pain ||
|| Lance through the shame||
Abbud. Malika. Raniyah. Salma.
Each name was one he had long attempted to suppress. It had never served him to dwell on a past so distant. But their faces still kept him awake at night. Spurring him on, their specters demanding vengeance. A black hymn ever chanting inside the crevices of his psyche.
Abbud. Malika. Raniyah. Salma.
|| Show me your answer ||
Each word was a knife, thrust into his heart by the iron gauntlets of the enemy. And every time he saw the thriving citizenry, happy and loyal families dutifully obeying the masters that gave them such security and prosperity, the knives twisted ever slowly.
And temporary release only came when his bullets broke their medal studded chests.
When his bombs tore apart the guileless and the unprepared.
Abbud. Malika. Raniyah. Salma.
His peers had always thought him a somber, silent man. One who shared little words, save for those necessary for his work. One who seldom showed his true face, a selection of masks, identities and personas always at the ready for him to slip away.
But here, he did not have to pretend.
The world would behold Isaiah Kane.
Abbud. Malika. Raniyah. Salma.
He felt them crawl behind him. He saw them, even as he shut his eyes tightly, pleading silently for them to rest again.
An arm reached out for his shoulder. The smell of burnt blood and flesh invaded his nostrils. The hand that gripped him missed fingers, blown away at their bases, cauterized stumps uselessly grasping for the son he would never see again.
He shut his eyes, desperate to not see the horror which now crawled along the ground, wet thumps marking its slow advance.
But his father's face greeted him all the same.
Eyes rotten, picked clean by birds.
His lower jaw nearly severed by high caliber bullets, hanging on by a thin bone.
Ever whispering.
Abbud. Malika. Raniyah. Salma.
A soft shuffle followed his father. A pair of feet, forlornly, shamefully dragging along the ground.
She cried out. A mixture of a long wail and a wet gurgle.
Bloodied, bruised hands with broken fingernails reached out for him. The wail intensified as the hands stopped just short.
The lamentation of a mother, forever separated from her son.
Her dress, one that he had always thought beautiful, was ripped and torn in areas that suggested far more than he ever wanted to know. That implied events which made his fists tremble and clench in indignation and the blackest of rage.
A single bullet hole on her forehead was covered by wet, haggard hair. Dark, viscous tears flowed from broken, hopeless eyes.
And ever she wailed. And ever did she cry out.
Abbud. Malika. Raniyah. Salma.
The doors of a closet manifested at his front, as he did his best to ignore the past reaching close behind him.
The closet shuffled, terrified whispers emanating from within. He approached, the sound of disembodied, heavy footsteps following his every step. The breathing of those inside the closet grew heavier and heavier as he got closer and closer, until it stopped as he grasped the handle.
He took a deep breath, and flung them open, the hands of his father and mother now forcing his eyelids open.
Two distorted figures screeched from within. Their faces twisted in eternal horror, the specters screamed a wail that pierced his soul and was suddenly silenced by echoing, disembodied gunfire. The figures crumpled, to the ground, long raven hair splayed like the heads of old, disheveled mops.
The two figures laid there, eyes frozen in a stare, accusatory needles for the brother that never made it home.
And despite their stillness, the grotesque holes which now riddled their small bodies whispered, joining the specters which now held Osiris tight.
Abbud. Malika. Raniyah. Salma.
He stared, unblinking. He did not resist. He did not muster emotion or reaction.
For his family were not monsters.
They were victims.
What they were, twisted and perverted by the Triumvirate.
What they could become, snuffed out by the Triumvirate.
There was nothing else.
Nothing else, except one thing.
Abbud. Malika. Raniyah. Salma.
The voices of his family cried out. Chanting ceaselessly, desperate to obtain the one thing Osiris could still give them.
He encased himself in black hatred. Allowed all restraint to be cast aside. Here, in this moment, he would eschew the mercy the Triumvirate did not deserve. The mercy they had not extended the four phantoms which kept chanting in satisfaction and famished desire.
Abbud. Malika. Raniyah. Salma.
Enough.
He shot a hand out in cold, methodical rage. Twisted by fury, his clawed fingers grasped for the Sun itself.
He held the mass of burning plasma in his hand, feeling every flare, savoring every minute, violent reaction which powered the star . He extended his sight beyond Mercury.
He gazed at the Earth.
It would be so easy to launch a flare above the planet. Fry every circuit and machine the monsters needed to sustain their bloodsoaked empire.
Or to time a coronal emission with the orbit of the planet and launch a burst of plasma at China, America, Russia or India.
At his fingertips laid the power of a god, and he could finally crush Clovis and his Triumvirate like the insects they were.
It would be easy.
He had dreamed of what could be done if he could snap his fingers, and rain down destruction upon these iron thrones which sat atop blood and death. Now…now he had such power; with a single motion, a single thought, it could all be ended.
They would burn.
And he would savor every tiny, helpless scream as he bathed the filth with flame. Performed a cleansing long overdue.
But….
But there was something else.
Someone else.
A feeling that made him pause as he held back the apocalyptic burst between his fingers.
A soft, gentle caress on the outer edges of his mind. The movement of an observer trying to not interrupt, nevertheless letting itself be known. The inoffensive tap on his shoulder of a stranger wishing to converse.
Pleased to meet you.
A whisper. He almost did not hear it, bewildered as he was. Friendly, cordial even. A polite knocking at his door. And yet anchored to his mind, no matter how hard he tried to think of something else, to distract himself, to look somewhere else. He remained pinned in place by the soft spoken statement.
One of his hands, still crackling with power, power capable of sundering a star, trembled unintentionally.
What is this?
As if to answer, the entity showed just a little more.
A visitor, almost imperceptible, hidden within the periphery of his vision. A black outline, almost like that of a man, blending in with the blackness of the sea of stars outside the planet's atmosphere.
No. It was not the dark.
It was the black. The end of light. The point of inverse. The breakdown of sanity, the whirlpool of nights unending, sorrows unceasing, and ends unyielding.
It was not merely blending in; it was a gaping maw within the stars; a darkness deeper than any blackness that surrounded it.
A night that swallowed all others.
Something that felt incomprehensibly far away, but whose attention was distinctly here.
When did he attract its attention? How had he not sensed it, wreathed in celestial might as he was? How had it simply..slipped in through Her defenses?
It had made no sound as it had arrived. It did not announce its presence, and yet he felt it.
Like the smallest drop of crude oil, dumped into a crystal clear lake.
A distortion in the purity; a subtle aberration.
But something small. The finger of one great being, breaking through the surface of a pond. He was but a miniscule fish, looking up in stupor. Incapable of understanding what it beheld.
He knew. He did not know how he knew, but something old, something he did not know resided within him, screeched faintly until he heard.
It was watching.
As if waiting for something.
Looking on in approval.
An unsettling, deathly chill emanated from the figure, so distant and yet so wrong.
A hollowness. A void.
Not Nothing.
Something deeper.
May I come in?
The whisper inquired, but did not require his permission. The faint, innocent voice tenderly peeled back every ward, defense and denial Osiris could muster as he desperately attempted to prevent the advance.
He felt cold, dead fingers push through his body slowly. Taking its time, for it knew he could not resist it. He fought back with all the power and force his will could muster, and the thing playfully swatted away his efforts, as a parent playing with a child.
This was not possible.
His mouth frozen in agape horror, he could only wordlessly repeat these words. Over and over, as if that could somehow make them true.
It reached past the Light.
It reached past the power.
It was reaching for him.
Primal fear filled Osiris with unexplained swiftness, and by reflex he extended his sight beyond the planet, beyond the Solar System, beyond what he was able to comprehend in the vast nothingness of the cosmos, looking for the intruder, ready to smite the unseen thing that lurked in the unknown and uncharted.
The display had gone for long enough, and he was a Guardian. He would not allow himself to be defiled in such a way. In his hands he held the Traveler´s might, and he was ready to unleash that which he clenched so tightly, the Triumvirate relegated to a vastly secondary concern.
He traveled the cosmic corridors with speed that he would have previously thought impossible. His eyes saw uncountable sights and his mind shifted quickly through each, barely registering what he was witnessing, only focused on the black, putrid trail the thing left behind its wake.
And as he was searching, he felt an iron vice suddenly yank him from his trail.
He opened his eyes, and his heart skipped a beat.
Behind him, he saw the Milky Way galaxy in its entirety. Its splendor grander than any depiction or image could possibly convey. The luminance of a million million stars washed over him, as he floated at the galaxy´s very edge.
He turned around.
A titanic nothingness filled the space outside the galaxy. An obelisk cloaked in shadow. A choking tombstone that marked the boundary between what was and was not.
The light was just…absorbed as it made contact with the shape. Nullified in its entirety, as if it had never existed in the first place. A darkness so complete and solid one could easily forget an entire galaxy was literally behind him.
His senses elevated beyond mortal limits, he could hear and feel the sounds and sensations of a galaxy full of busy, bustling life at his back.
But as he stared at the abyssal statement before him, he could feel nothing. He could not see past it. Not even empowered as he was by the Traveler could he break past the black wall which eclipsed his senses.
A macabre silence stretched as Osiris struggled to comprehend what he was looking at.
It was as if he had reached the edge of creation. The limits of the universe, impossible as the thought sounded in his head.
A mausoleum with pointed edges.
A tomb with three sides.
His eyes widened at the realization.
No.
He should not have come here.
He tried to pull back his sight, drowning as he was in overpowering terror. But he was pinned. The vice clamping his neck. The Traveler´s vim and vigor all but extinguished.
He felt a pit, hollow and deep, grow inside his chest as his arms and legs were paralyzed, as if encased in cement. His eyes were forced open by unseen claws, his mouth forced shut even as he was screaming on the inside.
The vast emptiness began to turn, roused from ancient slumber by the guest which had graciously delivered himself to it.
He felt a hand fall on his shoulder, and his breathing grew heavy. He tried to move his head to see who was behind him, but he was not allowed even that small courtesy.
The end inched near him, a small opening now visible on its side, emanating sickly pale light in mockery of Her gifts.
Helpless, as the lone point of luminescence inside the bottomless chasm got closer and closer, Osiris´s dread grew as the poorly masked lure waved invitingly before his eyes.
The hand on his shoulder tightened, as the face of the unknown figure Osiris had foolishly followed made itself visible at the periphery of his frozen sight.
Unnatural, malevolent eyes peered out from within the dark.
The face was his.
And he was smiling.
The thing that wore his skin spoke, all pretense dropped at this final, exultant moment. Its eyes were glassy and unfocused, bulging out of its pale head, each eyeball´s pupil aimed in a different direction, as if it cared not to maintain an appearance or remotely attempt to pass as a Human. It wore his voice like an ill fitting mask, poorly concealing the sheer hunger and scale of the horror before him.
Welcome.
We have been waiting.
The Traveler had a dark mirror.
And he was now facing it.
He was lost.
He resigned himself to his fate, as the End of All Things lumbered towards him, a great leviathan amidst a sea of perfect dark.
But something pulled him back from the brink.
He felt a warm, angelic grasp pull him with herculean strength. The paralysis which choked his soul broke in an instant.
The Traveler.
She had not forsaken him.
Freed by Her grace and vigilance, he pulled back his senses, scrambling to return to the safety of Mercury and the Traveler, letting go of his grip on the Sun. He encased himself with the comforting warmth of the Light, the nightmare at the edge of life and sanity far, far from his reach.
The specters of his family were nowhere to be seen as well.
He closed his eyes, attempting his best to compose himself.
He breathed heavily, raising his hands at eye level.
He stared at his own hands, starting to realize what he had been about to do.
The monster he was about to become, so deep and so lost in his pain and anger.
And the thing.
The thing he had encountered.
Had it been real? Had he made contact with the Traveler´s enemy?
It, which was interested in what he had almost done?
Or perhaps, he hoped, he wished he had imagined it? A vivid warning from the Traveler Herself, wishing not for Her chosen to make the wrong choice? A manifestation of his mind, trying to pull him back from the abyss's edge?
A glimpse of what he was about to become.
Or a warning for where temptation led.
A shiver ran up his spine, and he began to meditate. It was one of the methods he employed to calm himself down.
With little way of understanding the true nature of this encounter, he opted to instead focus on the more pressing matter.
In his agitated stupor, he had almost lost himself. Almost given in to his urges. That rot he had allowed to fester for so long.
That was not the way.
The members of his family would not want to be remembered in such gruesome, morbid ways. They would want their lives celebrated, their memories a source of comfort and love, regardless of their untimely ends.
He swore under his breath to honor them in the only way he had left.
To let them be reminders of the world he had vowed to save.
For the end of the Triumvirate could not be an end in and of itself. A victory that left nothing but destruction was one that was hollow. He had once told himself he did not care what the world thought, what they would say if he dragged it into a suicide pact so long as the Triumvirate burned.
But he found he did care about the world. He cared about what would happen afterward.
He cared what he would do.
He would not be a harbinger of the end for millions of innocents. He would not cause irreparable damage to the planet and the people he was trying to save.
Was this a penance? To assuage his conscience? As Isaiah Kane he had killed innocents. Collateral. Civilians. His hands were far from clean.
No, no, it wasn't as simple as that. He had told himself it was because it was a cost of doing war; or that they simply did not deserve it. It was a pragmatic assessment, of a cruel, dark, and hateful world.
But what if it didn't have to be.
What if it could be better?
And if he just repaid the pain?
Then what was he truly changing?
Now he had the option to be better. All of them did. To use the vast power he was gifted with for good, rather than to become the very oppressor he sought to dethrone.
Nevermind with the Traveler Herself watching. He would not betray Her trust, the ideals She sought to uphold.
But not for a second did he sense anything other than certainty from her. She could see into the realizations he was having now. Most, seeing the man he had been, would have been terrified of the thought of giving him the power of Godhood. They saw the mound of bodies and the stories he left in his wake.
But She had done so anyway. Not because of what he had done.
But because She saw him. How he had been made.
She saw.
And knew that he could be better.
And here, had given him the chance to show it.
It would not be easy. The road would be paved with pain and loss.
But the right path always is.
He pulled back his hand. The Sun was not to become a weapon. It was life, the celestial giant that had given rise to Humanity and would accompany this species as they journeyed into the stars.
The planet he had shaped, Mercury, would not become the launching pad for mass destruction. It would be a world of wonders. A world where the weary could rest and basque in the warmth of the golden star above them.
For he would no longer fight to satiate his thirst for revenge or his hatred. For he must become better than the monsters of the Triumvirate, and there would come a day where he could finally stop fighting and do something else with his life. He did not know what that would be, but the possibility alone was enough for the time being.
And for the first time, the possibility of the future after the guns fell silent did not fill him with apprehension, but with hope.
And at this, the malformed specters of his family, their whispers silenced, transformed back to how Osiris remembered them.
His father, tall and proud, and yet respectful and loyal. He always had every answer to every question he posed. He was what he had aspired to become, and he would proudly carry his legacy.
His mother, whose heart and wisdom always sought to spare him from the pains of the world. To provide opportunities she had never had, but would gladly give. For her son and daughters would be, above all else, good people that added kindness to the world. He would satisfy her dream, even if she was not there to see it.
His twin sisters, innocent and full of hope. Brilliant children, never tiring play partners. A pair of roses that would have easily eclipsed him, had they been allowed to bloom. He would adopt their spirit, become the friend they had always been to him.
He let these memories become one with him. The fire in his heart. The hope he would protect.
For this world was still one full of promise.
A garden, in need of rain.
With one last goodbye to the souls that walked behind his path, he raised his arms and shot up through the layers of Mercury.
He emerged to the surface, and beheld with his physical eyes the work he had designed so vividly with the Traveler's gift.
Mercury, terraformed.
Mercury, alive.
Mercury, his.
An honest smile on his face, he moved his gaze toward the skies, and there, within thick and beautiful clouds, floated the Traveler.
Alight in azure sigils and enveloped in a field of flaxen Light, the sphere hung proud above skies which had but recently been empty.
Osiris waved to the entity which he now considered a true friend, his doubts dashed, and heart now absolutely certain that the Triumvirate was going to fall and the Guardians would be instrumental in the restructuring of Human society.
However, despite Osiris thinking that the Traveler would leave, as Her reason for calling for him now fulfilled, She had one last gift to bestow upon him.
The sphere glowed softly, and a column of molten fire shot out of the Sun and straight into Osiris.
He stood his ground, no longer surprised by the outlandish displays of his master, and allowed the flames and molten metals to engulf his form.
The substance soon cooled, and Osiris broke free from the brittle cocoon.
To find himself wearing a new outfit.
Black robes covered his torso, ashen like the sands of the dead planet he first set foot upon. Gold lined the robes, with a large ornament plating his upper chest.
The most noticeable part, however, was the golden beak crowning the hood which now covered his head.
Sagira suddenly materialized to his side and gave an electronic whistle. "She gave you an outfit too?"
It was unusual, and it would take some getting used to, but it was Her gift to him and as such he would wear it with pride.
He nodded towards Sagira, who spun and chirped in excited glee as the Traveler began to dematerialize, Her work now complete.
Osiris bid Her off with one final wave, and one last message was transmitted to the Guardian as She took Her leave.
|| In loss and tragedy, amidst bitter ash ||
|| But there never is but one path ||
|| The road to rebirth is seldom traveled ||
|| My Phoenix rises, his soul embattled ||
SOVIET HIGH COMMAND | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION
To prepare for war was a serious thing.
It was a task that Clovis Bray found utterly consuming and engaging. This appeared to be the culmination of his life's work. The moment was nearly at hand where he would bring Humanity together under a single banner, and send a message to those deities in the stars that wished to dominate those they saw as lesser – or he would perish, and be forgotten or reviled by history.
To be sure, the stakes were high.
Regardless, he would be etched into the history books, though how he would be remembered would only be determined by the victors. The truth mattered little when it came to history, the context irrelevant in the face of propaganda and narrative. He would be remembered either as a savior, or a tyrant. A defender, or a destroyer. A hero, or a villain.
There were no other outcomes.
He was content with that.
Better one aspire to be Icarus than be nothing.
Such weight upon him was heavy, yet it did seem like he had prepared for it all of his life. It was not enough to merely be the General Secretary, for he was ultimately another in a line of those who had served in this position – yet unlike those who had been content to maintain the status quo, he would solidify the Soviet Union as the central power of Humanity.
It might not be the world revolution envisioned by the Soviet heroes of old, but it was a triumph that his predecessors would appreciate. And who knew – should his victory come, he felt the triumph of the Supreme Soviet throughout the world would be assured.
All were primed for such a transition.
While others had wavered, he had been clear in his vision. The United States, China, India, it was now to him they turned to. It was him who they listened to. Moscow became the center of Human power, and it would be through him that its true potential was realized.
He wondered how the men who had come before him would feel in his position; how they had felt when their own turns came to make decisions that changed the world. From Lenin's October Revolution, to Stalin's triumph over Nazi Germany. Had they experienced any doubts? Any uncertainties? Almost certainly.
Still, Clovis felt connected to these men through the simple understanding that they too, had realized that they held history in their hand, and it was them who would chart it.
A privileged number he would soon join.
His days since his return from England had been filled with daily briefings from every sector of the government. The military, the KGB, the industries, the media, everyone. His days had been long, and had often lasted long into the night. Yet he found himself invigorated by them, for how could he be tired or exhausted when it was upon him the future of Humanity would rest?
Advances in medicine, possible thanks to the knowledge the Traveler had so kindly given them, had led to stimulants and medicines that could mitigate exhaustion and push the Human body beyond its original intentions. He could reliably function on only a few hours of rest, and sometimes not even then.
There was much work to be done.
The Soviet Union mobilized for war.
The ultimate War to End All Wars.
"[We are keeping our intentions suppressed, but public OSINT is absolutely picking up the movements,]" Alton Bray was saying at the staff meeting, indicating slides that had various headlines and user comments displayed. "[Foreign media in particular is noting the industrial realignment, as well as the military equipment being moved on the shores of the English Channel, specifically near Brittany, Normandy, and the Norwegian coast. There is open speculation of a military subjugation against the United Kingdom.]"
He moved to the next slide. "[Counter-messaging operations have commenced, which will be echoed by our media apparatuses, and supported by aligned foreign media. We will be highlighting British movements, their own aggression, and suspected operations they are conducting against us. Sustained coordination with the other Triumvirate governments is advised for maximum effectiveness – this will be significantly easier if we have public backing.]"
"[It will,]" Zarin added. "[I am keeping in close contact with the Triumvirate nations, as per recently standardized policy. They are being appraised of our own movements and the general timetable. They are similarly mobilizing their own forces as applicable, and will be prepared to intervene in the unlikely event that we are unable to capture the British Isles or capitulate the United Kingdom.]"
"[Good,]" Clovis nodded. "[I expect the British will put up a decent fight against us – but they do not have our numbers, our technology, or our reserves.]"
"[To review our battle plan,]" Calumet said, standing and taking over the coming slides. "[The current operation will be conducted in several phases. Ireland is the weak point of the United Kingdom, and while we release initial barrages across the Channel and from our Navy, we will conduct and invasion of Ireland, capitulate it, and prepare for the second phase.]"
The slide changed, showing a captured Ireland with tokens denoting Soviet forces positioned along the coasts. "[We will begin a targeted shelling of Britain from Ireland, targeting military bases, critical infrastructure, and agriculture,]" she continued. "[When we have judged enough damage has been done, we will conduct a proper invasion of the island from twenty-three points, launching from Western and Central Europe, Ireland, Norway, and Iceland. When entrenchments have been complete, each respective group will link, encircling the entirety of the United Kingdom.]"
She stepped back. "[And then, we tighten the noose.]"
Clovis nodded. "[Excellent. I ask for nothing more.]"
"[No plan survives contact with the enemy, but we have redundancies in place,]" Calumet said. "[On a related note, there is another element to be aware of ,]" She indicated another slide. "[There are indications that India has begun mobilizing their own forces for another assault on the Levant. As it stands to reason that Israel has likely been deprived of their nuclear deterrent, it is almost certain that they will strike against them when we commence operations against the British.]"
"[Expected, and good riddance,]" Clovis said. "[That issue will finally be put to bed, though that will hardly dispel the terrorists. They are working quite well in disrupting them, but the conquest of Israel will turn it into a tinderbox for a time. So long as they are aware with that.]"
"[Should we offer counter-terrorism support?]" Zarin asked, making a note.
"[Once the British have been pacified, yes.]"
There was some additional discussion on the details, as the room broke into a series of different conversations between each other, before Luka stood up to speak, and Clovis cleared his throat loudly, indicating the KGB Director, and they quieted down.
"[There are a few other matters to attend to which do not connect to the impending conflict,]" Luka said, clasping his hands behind his back. "[The first of which is that there have been a number of…strange appearances.]"
He snapped his fingers, and all present were handed a file by an aide to those present, and inside the file were high-quality images of an individual who Clovis did not recognize – though the Ghost hovering at his shoulder made the relevance very clear. No one else in the room seemed to know who it was either. "[Is this individual important? Or otherwise distinct from the other Traveler plants in our nation?]" Clovis asked.
"[Perhaps, perhaps not,]" Luka said. "[What's important about this one is that he's dead.]"
Clovis' brow shot up. "[Elaborate?]"
"[Exactly what I said,]" Luka indicated the file. "[His name is Soare Constantin, a Romanian student who was involved in the Iron Guard – a movement those acquainted with history will be familiar with. One of the student fascists, if you remember. Extremely traditional, deeply religious, and a firebrand – that is according to KGB files on him.]" Luka paused for a long moment. "[He also committed suicide in 1950.]"
The Iron Guard. Now that was a name that Clovis had not heard in a very, very long time. The Romanian fascist movement had been a thorn in the side of the Soviet Union soon after the end of World War II, and it had taken a few years for that particular rebellion to be properly suppressed. Rather brutally, as such characterized the Soviet Union of the era, but the actions had been justified.
Thus, an Iron Guard member back from the dead was troubling.
And obviously, should be impossible
"[Why did he commit suicide?]" Calumet said with a frown. "[Is that relevant?]"
"[I consider it extremely relevant,]" Luka said. "[He committed suicide in the Pitești Prison. As you might expect, he was also a…participant in the Pitești Experiment. He was one of only a handful who successfully managed to kill himself, by slitting his wrist on an exposed piece of metal.]"
Ah.
That made more sense in context.
Clovis couldn't help but grimace as he was reminded of the Pitești Prison, no doubt one of the most infamous prisons of the Soviet era. The less that was known or said about that place, the better, and it had been a very inconvenient part of Soviet history that the Triumvirate had helped keep out of the public eye, and which had been dismissed as the work of rogue actors who had, of course, been punished severely when the extent of the abuses were found out.
"[We went to the site of the mass grave where he was buried,]" Luka continued, indicating that they continue through the file. "[This was what we found.]"
The picture was deceptively normal at a first glance, if one ignored the very clear piles of dirt removed and a hole dug. It was a messy hole, and some of the pictures showed other Human remains which had long-since decomposed. Mass graves were not exactly well-maintained. It made him somewhat uneasy, looking at the images. "[What is our explanation for this?]"
"[The working theories are the following,]" Luka said. "[The first and most unlikely is that this actually is Constantin, and he has somehow returned from the dead. The only possible explanation could be the Traveler, but it has shown no indication that it can legitimately resurrect the dead.]"
Calumet cleared her throat. "[Director, with respect…the Traveler has turned lifeless and barren planets into thriving ecosystems. I'm not unconvinced this isn't the most likely explanation.]"
"[It is still unlikely,]" Luka disputed, shaking his head. "[Perhaps with a recently-deceased corpse, it is possible – but Constantin has been dust and bones for decades. What is not out of the question is one of the Traveler's identified puppets has modified his features to resemble those of Constantin – who is still remembered by Romanian dissidents today. The chances that this is actually Constantin are near zero.]"
"[I don't suppose there are other individuals walking around who should be dead, and subsequently have a vendetta?]" Clovis asked.
"[Not to our knowledge, but we will keep looking,]" Luka stated, turning to their Foreign Ambassador. "[Zarin, I would reach out and see if any of the Triumvirate has similar reports. If there is a Ghost involved, this is almost certainly a Traveler psy-op of some kind, and it is unlikely they would just target us.]"
"[I will do so,]" Zarin nodded.
"[Good, is there anything else, Chairman?]" Clovis asked.
The KGB head demurred. "[No, General Secretary.]"
"[Then all of you are dismissed, with the exception of Luka,]" Clovis stood, and the rest of them followed. "[There is one final matter I wish to say. Shortly after today, I will be departing to Europa to undergo a procedure. I expect it to be completed smoothly, but it will involve some changes as you can imagine. Nonetheless, I wish it to be known that I am grateful for your tireless service to the Union and the Motherland, and that I will never forget. Each of you have my faith, and together, our victory is assured.]"
He smiled. "[Now you are dismissed. Our final war approaches.]"
They saluted, and departed the room. Luka remained behind, as instructed, and he eyed the General Secretary with curiosity. "[Is there an issue?]"
Clovis didn't answer immediately, and stood there silently for a long moment. It would be a simple matter to just say he had changed his mind, or there wasn't anything really to say. After all, there would be nothing that would be truly lost if he just…forgot.
No.
The coward's way would not be taken. He was the General Secretary of the Soviet Union. He was the face of Humanity, his word carried weight, and his vision guided nations. He could not afford to soften his heart.
Not even for family.
Not even for his daughter.
He reached into his coat and withdrew an unsealed letter. He handed it to Luka without a word. Without comment Luke took it out and read the order.
The execution of Anastasia Bray for intentional sabotage and treason against the Unions of Soviet Socialist Republics.
Luke saw the signature, and nodded. "[I understand, General Secretary. Do you wish to speak with her one last time?]"
Clovis wanted to do so. Yet he wondered if he might waver at that moment. It could not be risked. "[I have said all I need to,]" he said quietly. "[I have only one request.]"
"[Of course.]"
"[Do make it quick. She served the nation for many years. Let justice be swift.]"
Luka's voice was somber as he saluted. "[By your command, General Secretary.]"
TRIUMVIRATE INTELLIGENCE COMMAND | TAMPA | CONFEDERATION OF AMERICAN STATES
The escalation was intensifying.
And time was running out.
The TIS, CIA, MSS, every single intelligence agency and alliance Fox was aware of was hyper-focused on a single upcoming event – the invasion of the United Kingdom by the Soviet Union. Of secondary importance were the Indians preparing to move against the Levant, but even they were preparing to be called upon should the invasion of the United Kingdom require it.
Everyone knew what this meant.
It would be a final battle; the course of Humanity decided, for better or worse.
War was no longer a possibility – it was inevitable. Fox had been aware of this reality for some time, all that he had tried to avoid it, but he was but one man, and one man was little in the face of inevitability. The Triumvirate as he wished it could simply not endure in the era of the Traveler.
Perhaps it had been inevitable. Perhaps it was because of Clovis Bray. He did not know, all he did know was that no one – himself included – could remain neutral or idle. Sides needed to be chosen, as the battle lines were being drawn.
No, war was coming, the only question left was when Clovis Bray was going to pull the trigger. Fox was unclear on when that would be, everything he was hearing was that the dates were fluid – but that it would be soon. It would have to be – though not imminent. Soon enough to accelerate things, far enough away that there was still some time left to prepare.
Though they would have to scramble.
Wonderful.
Fox was acutely aware that the General Secretary knew what he was doing – it was a declaration of intent. One to push the endgame, and let the chips fall where they may. The escalatory models were clear about what would happen – a renewed conflict anywhere would almost certainly trigger other conflicts throughout the world as every faction and group saw this as their absolute last chance.
An assumption that was not incorrect.
If he had these models, Clovis certainly did.
India's mobilization was quieter than the Soviet Union's, but still critical. Everyone was focused on Europe, while they quietly prepared finish what they had begun decades ago. The remainder of the Levant would soon fall to them, and deprived of their nuclear deterrent, Israel would be unable to hold out.
Israel knew it too. Intelligence indicated they were similarly preparing, though knew it would be a hopeless initiative.
Their objective would be to make India bleed. Fight to the last man and woman.
The war approached.
Perhaps the last one.
Elsie had not picked an ideal time to undergo the Exo conversion. If he'd known this was coming, he would have delayed it, as he could have used her here right now. There were numerous factors at play, and he would have preferred that he had someone who knew Clovis well to assist in predicting him.
Unfortunately, he would be deprived of her for a while longer. He'd have to rely on the rest of his analysts for insight into Bray.
However, he was growing confident that when the invasion happened, they would be ready to respond. Mostly.
Though there were always things that threated complications.
Such as the photo that had just been handed to him by Brask.
There were few things that could really surprise him these days, not when Paracausality was a thing regularly discussed, planets were terraformed daily, and he was watching interviews with colonists just as often. However, when Brask entered, his face unnaturally pale, as if he'd seen a ghost, he'd known something was up.
Brask didn't look like that unless he was sincerely concerned. He'd handed Fox the picture without a word – and that spoke for itself.
The image was not the best quality, but the days of barely-recognizable, grainy, black-and-white photos were long since passed. Now the biggest obstacle was angles. The angle for this photo was the most problematic – but it clearly displayed a group of guerilla fighters all facing a central figure, fists and guns raised in the air.
If this wasn't the surprise of the week.
Just what he needed right now.
Fox finally set the photo down. "Is this confirmed?"
"Comes straight from our man in Brazil," Brask confirmed. "No one else believed it at first either. Gustavo sent him and one of his men to Bolivia to confirm. Their report? It's true. Pictures have been circulating among South American groups, and it's only a matter of time until there's video proof."
Fox whistled as he once more looked at the picture. It seemed impossible to consider, but the image quality couldn't really be disputed, nor Brask's own analysis. The curly hair, beard, beret, and very distinctive face all taken together…there was really only one person it could be. All of that would be incredible enough.
And only amplified as a Ghost floated above his shoulder.
Fox leaned back. "Who else knows?"
"Very few, from what I've seen," Brask said slowly. "No official or unofficial acknowledgement from the United States from what I've seen, but as I said, it's only a matter of time. In my personal opinion, once they find out, there is going to be a significant effort to suppress this."
Which would be an understatement, to put it lightly. It wasn't just the Confederation who had good reason to suppress this, but the Soviet Union as well, considering they were the reason for the man's death.
"Without a doubt."
Watcher-7 had been quiet throughout all of this – and the Ghost had been unusually quiet as the developments had taken place. Fox was fairly certain that the Ghost was very aware of what was happening, and was merely observing him for now.
Seeing what would be done.
Brask fixated on Watcher-7. "I don't suppose you have an answer, Ghost?"
Anyone who glanced at Watcher-7 at that moment would have shuddered. Chills on their skin, hair rising.
Something beyond looked through its eyes.
Something beyond him looked into Fox's eyes.
And he felt it every bit of it, as it looked into him.
"It isn't the eyes that are blind," it said, it declared. Watcher-7's iris a golden sun. "But the heart. You know so little, yet you believe so much. The dead are never gone. The bones yet live. The dust calls out. The graves speak."
It drifted, until it was face to face with him. Dominating the room. Looming over them, by presence alone.
"You think your legends and myths and faiths empty words of long dead men," it said, bearing into him. "You think your sins and crimes and murders are buried and gone. They never are. The drums beat. The bells beckon. The day comes."
In that moment, he knew it smiled.
He felt a chill grasp him.
"Let us see, how great this empire built on crime, greed, and cruelty is. Let us see what power built on the death of innocence measures up to. Let the guns of the Triumvirate take aim, let them take their measure. Let them take their shots, let the powder of their guns swallow the sky."
Watcher-7's fins revolved around it, spinning like planets orbiting a sun. "The dead rise, for they were never gone. The crimes will be repaid, for they were never hidden. Let slip your warmachines. Let slip your blood hounds. Let slip your war hordes. Let the march of legions trample the earth in deafening cacophony of a tyrant's oppressive dominion."
"Let it be, so that you may see, what souls set aflame can be," not a statement. A promise. "As all horrors and terrors can be, are made to be. That there shall never be a dusk without dawn."
It moved closer.
He almost saw Her.
Almost felt Her cup his cheeks.
"There will never be dark," it stated. "Without light."
"The light that swallows the night whole," it declared.
Silence.
A pressure that oppressed the room was gone, as it never was there, and Watcher-7 drifted idly around him. Fins spinning back normally.
Fox resisted a shiver at that. His lips were dry, his heart pacing in his chest.
He knew what just spoke to him.
What power was yet being hidden?
Both men shared a glance.
Fox had seen Brask face many things before. He was able to operate under stresses and challenges without so much as breaking a sweat. He was among the most unflappable as any leader could hope for in their subordinate. Yet Brask was pale, his face drawn, and he looked like he wanted to bolt.
Unnerved didn't cover the expression on Brask's face. It was something deeper, more primal; the face of someone who was stripped before a judge; exposed for all to see. What they had all just experienced was…
It was showing them how, in the grand scheme of things, small they really were.
Brask swallowed. Seemingly afraid to speak further. His eyes were wide and unblinking. For his part, Fox was similarly shaken - though he managed to keep his composure more than his subordinate.
This had been the most forceful declaration that he had heard from the Ghost, in a tone that was both warning and final.
What was clear was that the Traveler had been similarly expecting this day - and had apparently decided that if the Triumvirate was to fall, there would be a highly poetic element to it.
There was another element that he picked up from Watcher-7's declaration.
It was time to make their moves now.
To pick their side.
At one time, he knew this would have been a difficult choice. The Triumvirate was something he had believed in, had defended, and had justified. All of it, the good and the bad, all for the greater good of Humanity, because it was impossible to envision something that was better.
Now though…
Now perhaps there could be.
And so, as he chose his side, it was easier than he'd thought it would be.
Maybe because it was the right one.
The fate of Humanity would hinge on what he would do, and so he made his choice. He met the eyes of his subordinate and friend. "Brask, establish contact with the Grand Ayatollah. It is time we spoke."
RESISTANCE CHAMBERS | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL
War was on the horizon.
In Israel. In Arabia. In China. In Britain.
Were they ready? Extremely unlikely, but Hamaza felt less pessimistic than he believed he should be. No matter the outcome, when the end came, they were going to make it something the world would remember – or at least they would make it difficult for the Triumvirate to cover it up should they fail to overthrow the tyrants.
Victory or death.
Such seemed to be the ultimate question facing them.
The days had been filled with frantic work, as each of the cells worked tirelessly to prepare for the coming storm. Contact with resistance groups across the world continued, each of them coordinating the eventual strike that would be conducted once the order was given. An order that everyone knew was going to be coming sooner than later.
The British had their own efforts to assist the wider Resistance disrupted, as they were understandably preparing for the invasion of the Soviet Union – with the very real possibility of the rest of the Triumvirate also joining in. There was some hope to cling too for them – there were more Ghosts that were appearing. It had raised some questions on if the alien was going to act more openly or not.
Hamaza wasn't sure.
No matter the answer, he didn't believe that it should be relied upon.
It would not be an alien which liberated them – liberation would come by their hands, and their hands alone.
Now there was something else.
Something that could change the entire calculus.
He'd summoned the Resistance Council when it had happened – and even Arya had shown up due to the implications of it. He'd simply printed out copies of the short letter that had been sent to him only a day ago, and distributed them to those present. A letter that he'd initially been skeptical of the legitimacy of.
But there were some things that were too difficult to fake – and having it delivered by a Triumvirate Intelligence Service agent would have been very, very difficult to fake.
The letter had been short and to the point – somehow Hayden Fox, current director of the TIS, had been maneuvering against the Triumvirate for some time, and was reaching out to request a meeting to discuss actions against the Triumvirate when the invasion of the United Kingdom began.
Hamaza didn't know much about Fox. Not the man at least. The organization he was of course intimately familiar with, as they were as much of an arm of the Triumvirate as every other intelligence agency. While they weren't an infamous as the CIA or KGB, they had a reputation for ruthlessness, competence, and until recently, complete loyalty.
He didn't know what to make of it.
"This feels like a trap," Jilla finally said, her face skeptical. "Why now? Why should we believe it?"
Liberman rubbed his chin. "The brazenness almost makes me consider it more legitimate. Because if this was a trap, why would they namedrop the director of the TIS in it. That's not how this works. You play up a disgruntled high-ranking officer for traps like these, not the leader."
"Perhaps they are assuming we're desperate enough to take the risk?" Ryan wondered.
"Unlikely," Liberman shook his head. "The TIS is among the more competent of the intel agencies, at least in my dealings. They know we don't run a shoddy operation and would know this kind of trap would fail."
"And here we are, discussing it," Jilla snorted.
"Arya, you're more familiar with Fox and the TIS," Liberman turned to her. "Your assessment?"
Arya laced her fingers together, her face set in an uncertain expression, one that Hamaza hadn't seen often. "The Triumvirate Intelligence Service is odd. It's always maintained that its purpose is to ensure the supremacy of the Triumvirate - not necessarily the nations themselves. Historically, this has resulted in the agency often having poorer relations with the rest of the Triumvirate, as they ironically view nationalism and political brinkmanship as idiotic and pointless. If they had their way all of the Triumvirate would be under a single government, or at least a single set of rules."
"And so they are loyal to the Triumvirate as a result," Amjah finished.
Arya hesitated. "Not exactly. They are, first and foremost, loyal to the idea of the Triumvirate. The TIS are the true believers in the project, you will not find more ardent apologists for the Triumvirate, and they at least put some effort into justifying it without wholly whitewashing it. 'The Greater Good' taken to its logical end."
"With that context," Hamaza said. "The TIS turning on the Triumvirate seems even more unlikely."
"Mmm," Arya was clearly not as certain. "Clovis has taken more and more control of the Triumvirate over the past year, or at least become its most prominent face. MI6 assessments of Hayden Fox have had him pegged as a potential vulnerability for a while now. Fox has been distinctly displeased with how Clovis has been acting of late, and several months ago the TIS was effectively cut out of intelligence sharing and Triumvirate leadership decisions."
Liberman whistled. "Interesting. Very interesting. What led to that?"
"Rumors are unreliable, but there are several recurring points," Arya said. "The first is that Fox has never really liked Clovis, and the feeling is mutual. The second is that it is something to do with the Traveler. The source of that conflict is unclear, but MI6 believes that Fox thinks that Clovis is potentially going to make the Traveler an enemy, and subsequently destroy the Triumvirate in the process."
Jilla raised an eyebrow. "He's afraid of it."
"Considering what it's done and continues to do?" Arya answered. "He's correct to think so. Again, this is a rumor, but it tracks with the general mindset of the TIS, as well as Fox's own profile. He's notoriously private, and very good at what he does, and people close to him are extremely loyal to him."
"And what does that mean for us?" Hamaza asked.
"It means this shouldn't be dismissed," Arya said slowly. "While it seems ridiculous, this is not a completely unlikely development. It's very possible that Fox considers Clovis and the current Triumvirate leadership as a greater threat to the institution than us, and is willing to help us remove them."
"In exchange for what?" Liberman wondered out loud. "The TIS are Triumvirate apologists, as you said. What comes after, assuming we are successful?"
"A very important question," Arya nodded. "And one I can only speculate at. The goals of Fox and the TIS are almost certainly not our own. It's possible that Fox, and TIS leadership, see this as a potential to establish the Triumvirate as they envision it."
"And should the Triumvirate collapse, they are best positioned to enact it," Jilla finished. "They have the institutional connections, resources, and legitimacy to pull it off – but they're also making significant assumptions."
"We don't know though, that's the trouble," Arya said. "I'm assuming their calculus based on history and our current knowledge – I don't know if its correct. Even if it's not completely unexpected, it is unexpected enough to raise significant questions. I don't think it's a trap, Hamaza, but I don't know if this means Fox is positioning to be an ally, or intends to make an ultimatum."
"Which would be?" Hamaza wondered.
"Fox is pragmatic," Arya said. "Enough that he's smart enough to know that outright using and casting us away is a bad idea. I expect if we help him, he would guarantee the independence of Israel, the United Kingdom, and likely support the restoration of the Islamic Republic. Perhaps a few more concessions. Beyond that? The TIS wants a one-world order, or at least a one-world body bound by a shared law."
"I wonder if he's unaware that the resistance is much larger than us," Amjah said. "We're not the only ones who matter."
"Yes and no. We have been the face of the resistance for years now," Liberman said. "We have weight other groups do not – especially in the eyes of the public, and in our brethren around the world."
Arya met Hamaza's eyes. "My recommendation is this – we meet Fox, in person, in a place we control. We listen to him, and see what he has to say. It should be you, me, and maybe Liberman."
Hamaza thought. "Also Shaheed."
Liberman nodded, but Arya cocked her head. "Why him?"
"He's effectively been running a majority of Arabian operations," Amjah updated. "Frankly, at this point he should be here. If the Grand Ayatollah is the face of the Iranians, Shaheed is becoming the face of the Arabs; they look to him for leadership. He should be included, especially as the Indians continue their operations in the region."
"I'll take your word for it," Arya said. "Include him as well. Leave the security to me and Liberman – and let us set the security protocols. If Fox is legitimate, he'll see the need. Otherwise, that is my recommendation."
Hamaza looked around the room. "Are there objections?"
No one disputed him. He looked back to Arya and nodded. "Then so be it – we will meet him."
LUBYANKA | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION
Anastasia Bray woke up that morning, and knew something was going to happen. Something she expected she wasn't going to like.
It was a feeling; one she couldn't describe or explain. One that she had no logical or rational basis for, one which she'd have once discarded as an overactive imagination as a result of uncontrollable biological impulses. Now though, she didn't have anything but time to think and reflect.
She looked around her cold and barren cell. Her home for how many days she no longer knew, nor really bothered to keep track of. Her home was a soulless, empty place that was designed to crush the spirit and instill despair. Her home where she'd spoken at length, to someone she wasn't sure was listening.
She believed he was. He was collecting it for analysis, if nothing else. If he was listening she did not know, yet she had faith. There were the little signs, ones that she'd become fixated on. Minor things, lights blinking in certain patterns, or switching colors, or even slight off-color noises.
Or maybe she was actually losing her mind.
She didn't want to contemplate that, because accepting that would mean there was no hope.
The monitors observing her doubtless thought she was already insane. Why else would she share stories of her childhood, speak of her colleagues and their accomplishments? Recount the history of the Soviet Union from the days of the October Revolution? Talk about her mother, sister, family as a whole?
Why indeed?
It wasn't as though anything she said was a surprise. She knew his power, and that if Rasputin wished, he could simply pull the data from servers around the world. Many such volumes of history and culture she'd fed during the project itself. Yet there was a difference between possessing the knowledge, and knowing the Humanity each such story contained.
Not all men were like Clovis, or those that were now ruling Humanity. Most people were good, kind, and brilliant. No matter what happened to her, she wanted Rasputin to know that. Not to judge all of them for the actions of a few.
She hoped he did.
Ana spent the morning – or at least she presumed it was morning – cleaning her little cell, sparse as it was. She made the little cot. She put everything in order. She had a feeling that it might be the last time she did it. She didn't exactly know why she would bother; no matter who came after, if she left the Soviet guards would simply clean everything their own way.
Wasted effort, perhaps, but she believed in making the best of what was given. This cell had been her home; she would leave it for the unfortunate soul who came next.
She sat down. "[This may be the end. Do you know?]"
She looked up at the camera. The red light blinked. An answer? Maybe.
"[It might be,]" she continued. "[It's a feeling. I can't explain it to you in terms you understand; Humans have those sometimes. Many times they're wrong, sometimes they're right. Maybe I'll go to bed tonight and it will be nothing. Maybe I'll leave here today for the last time. If I do…]"
She swallowed. "[Please do not forget. I believe you've been listening, I hope you've been learning. I trust you are, I did everything I could to make you capable of that. I suppose I won't see if I succeeded or failed, but I know I did my best. No matter what, I know you will change the world – and that you already have.]"
No indication from the lights and cameras in the room. Normal, then.
Several hours passed.
The door unexpectedly opened. Two guards entered, stone-faced men who motioned for her to stand. "[Anastasia Bray, by order of the General Secretary, you are to be executed for treason – effective immediately.]"
So this was it.
It didn't hit her as hard as she'd expected it to. Perhaps because she'd been preparing for it; anticipating it. She'd known that there wasn't going to be a way out of this where she'd live. A small, naïve part of her had perhaps hoped, but the rational side had known that she'd been condemned the moment she'd been put in this place.
She didn't want to die.
She wanted to spend another day on this world. She wanted another chance to enjoy time with her friends, catch up with her sister. She wanted another day to enjoy this strangeness of Human emotion; incapable of true recreation. She wanted another day to marvel as the advancements and achievements that were happening every day; marvel as the uniqueness and beautiful reality they inhabited.
It wasn't right.
It wasn't fair.
But rarely was life either of those things.
She'd thought about how she would approach death. She was no fighter; that had never been her nature. Nor was she foolish enough to consider it here. But she was a Bray, and Brays would face the consequences with dignity and their heads high. She did not regret what she had done; she would never apologize for it.
Today she might die, but she knew that Rasputin would be her legacy. What that meant for Humanity, she did not know.
Ana inclined her head. "[Very well.]"
The guards put her in cuffs, and led her into the hallway. The guards for their part were silent; it was likely routine for them. How many people did they walk to their deaths every day? Perhaps too many; too many to the point where Human life had lost meaning for them. They did not see a woman with ambitions, emotions, and life before them, but a name to eventually check off their lists.
She felt sorry for them, in a way.
They descended deeper into the prison. She risked speaking. "[Will he be there?]"
One shook his head. "[There will be no witnesses.]"
No doubt Clovis would justify it to himself that he had more important matters to attend to. She did not know what was happening in the world. After all, she was a traitor to be disposed of, why should he give her more attention than any other captive sentenced to death? No, he was too above the execution of his family.
He would never admit it, but she knew he didn't want to watch his daughter die. A death that he had personally ordered. He didn't want to think about the fact that he would have her blood on his hands and conscience forever.
Coward.
But she wasn't surprised. Not anymore.
She was brought into a small ward, a windowless room that had a patient chair with bonds for strapping people onto, and a cabinet with various medical supplies. A standard Soviet execution; lethal injection. She knew the cocktail of chemicals used for each execution, pioneered by American and Soviet scientists who had been working to develop a drug that was rapid, painless, and effective.
They'd succeeded. Designing chemicals to kill people wasn't difficult, nor expensive.
She wondered how it would feel.
Ana looked to the camera, where she knew he would be watching. There was something curious about knowing that the only one who would watch her execution was a machine, and not her own father. Clovis would never see it; out of sight, out of mind.
She didn't know why she was looking up. Perhaps expecting some surprise; some unexpected intervention. Some development which would save her. Maybe for Rasputin to do something, intervene and save his creator as would happen in some stories. Stories with good people, a vanquishing of evil, and happy endings.
But this wasn't going to be one of those stories.
There were no happy endings awaiting her.
A part of her had hoped that Rasputin would do something, she knew he had the power. But perhaps that was just his nature. She was simply another Human out of billions on this humble planet; a data point for him to consider. She'd given him all she could, and perhaps he knew that – and was fine with letting her fade away.
She didn't hate him. He had become his own entity now. One that she could no longer comprehend.
She nonetheless hoped he remembered her.
Ana was seated on the chair. One of them put the restraints on her, while the other collected the drugs to execute her. The fluid was strangely clear, and was carefully pulled into the syringe. It was a small dose, emphasizing its sheer lethality. The first guard appraised her. "[You are permitted to send a last message. Do you wish to say anything?]"
Did she?
Yes. She should give one last message, even if it would be ignored. "[Tell him that all tyrants face their judgement one day. Just as the Tsar fell because of tyranny and hubris, so too with those who follow in his footsteps.]"
The guard noted that down. He said nothing, and she gave nothing more. Something caught her eye, a blinking of the camera that had been positioned on her. It only took a few moments to figure out it was a morse code.
I will remember.
Both guards who witnessed the execution of Anastasis Bray, would recall later how she had unexpectedly smiled as the injection had been prepared. Both of them had borne witness to many executions, and had seen all manner of reactions. Yet in her, they said they saw someone strangely at peace.
She did not resist as the needle was pushed into her arm.
She barely felt it at all.
It was a bit cold, wasn't it?
Her eyes became heavy, and she closed them, as the coldness spread throughout her body, turning it numb.
She was pronounced dead ten minutes later.
The execution of Anastasis Bray was complete.
THE CELESTIAL MOUNTAINS | MARS
Resting before him was a weapon.
Or the pieces of one.
One of the Guardians had made it during their war preparations, as the small industries being built in the mountains expanded, thanks to the fabrication capabilities of the Ghosts. That afforded those with engineering inclinations the capability to return to their craft, and the ability and flexibility afforded by Light allowed for designs, tests, and capabilities once believed impossible.
For those with a talent for design, they had the capability to create, iterate, and produce prototypes at a rate previously unheard of. Their only limitation was the resources and elements.
Valentin's own view on weapons such as these had shifted. Weapons that were bound by conventional physics and laws, ones that would be faced and mitigated by his own power. It seemed a tool of limitation to him; irrelevant in the futurescape of war.
What did it matter the speed of a projectile or the payload of an explosive when he could reshape reality to his will? When that which governed the material world could be changed with a wave of a hand? The answer was of course, that it didn't. Yet this fact did underlay one particular truth.
His power, his capability, was not the norm, even among the Guardians. He was Her voice, and embodied the power She possessed. Few of the other Guardians had his raw strength and potential. Most would still require tools and weapons that were bound by the laws of reality, with their Light as an augment to their martial prowess.
So with this view, one might wonder why he would bother with this exercise; he had little reason to indulge in it. There were two reasons, the first being to familiarize himself with what his Guardians would carry into battle – and the second was to hone his power; demonstrate and refine the power he possessed.
The Guardian who had made this weapon had referred to it as a 'Multi-tool'; an experimental weapon that was wildly customizable, and with various attachments, could become a fully-automatic weapon, a sidearm, a sniper rifle, or grenade launcher. It was, frankly, a design that shouldn't ever work, nor would ever be approved – particularly since it's features included a miniaturized laser cutter, a compass, and was waterproof.
There was a reason it had caught on. If there was a standard weapon to be propagated, it should be one with such versatility. Shaxx had been impressed by it, and Valentin's own familiarity with weapons confirmed to him it's validity.
The only issue, which was one with their entire – and extremely limited – conventional arsenal, was a means of replication and production. They possessed no industrial factories or specialized labs that would be required to make copies and components needed. The only reason these prototypes existed was because of Light, and an artist with the capability to harness it.
And so the weapon laid before him, stripped down, and with the blueprints nearby it. He had spent the past day memorizing it. Doing it was easier now; more so than it ever had been when he'd just been a mortal. Part of it was because his connection to Vigil contained a mental link that could fill in certain gaps and details if he was lacking any. It was a technique that he, and the other Guardians, and only just started experimenting with, but already it's possibility was expansive.
So he drew upon that memory. Every single piece, every single element, every single detail that would be essential to its replication. This was a technique that he knew as possible in theory – but like with most things involving the Light, anything was possible, fewer things were practical.
He'd tuned his mask to allow the luminance of the world to be seen - though not to the degree of not wearing it at all. It was intense enough where he was able to see the pieces of a weapon before him in a way that was difficult to describe; not at it was, but what it could transform into; what it could become.
Vigil floated above him. "[You are ready?]"
"[Yes,]" he said. "[I am.]"
He drew upon the Light. Perhaps that was the wrong term. To harness the Light was now as easy as breathing. He less drew upon it, and instead gave it shape, purpose, and intent. All of reality was luminous possibility; he was to bring possibility into reality.
In his mind's eye he saw the weapon that he had memorized, each minute detail and element, all woven together into a singular completed masterpiece. It was surprisingly easier than he imagined it would be, easier than anyone could have imagined, when what he ultimately was doing was creating something out of thin air.
Out of nothing.
The wisps of golden Light flowed around his hands; he could feel the texture and smooth metal, he could feel the weight of it perfectly. As if plucked out of the air, the feeling shifted from imagination to reality. Pulled from Possibility, it created itself in his hands, and he did not stop channeling the power until it was finished to his satisfaction.
When it was finished, he held a completed weapon.
He looked it over, looking for any obvious mistakes. He checked all of the pieces of it; the barrel, the magazine, the compass and cutter. Everything appeared to be exactly as it was compared to the disassembled weapon on the table. Vigil scanned it, and confirmed that it matched with the schematics
Well, he'd done it.
Another theory confirmed.
He looked up at Vigil. "[It worked. Easier than I thought it would be.]"
"[Agreed,]" Vigil concurred. "[I believe most could replicate this, given practice.]"
"[With practice, yes,]" Valentin nodded. Weapon replication via the Light was not new, but he'd been the first to attempt it on a complex weapon. Shaxx's trainings had seen this kind of thing spring up organically – though it'd mostly been simple weapons like hammers, swords, and other melee weapons that lacked complexity.
It had been…interesting to see conventional fights descend into an all-out melee as weapons ran out of ammunition and the Guardians started pulling out flaming broadswords out of thin air. Shaxx had encouraged the creativity, for no other reason than it got the Guardians more familiar with incorporating Light into their combat styles.
An advent of something greater; something he'd just confirmed. Shaxx would be very interested to hear of this development.
A knock sounded outside the room. "Come in," Valentin called.
A few moments later, Osiris entered. The man was…different since he'd returned from where the Traveler had taken him. No, 'different' was the wrong word. Whatever one could call it, there was a peace in Osiris that had not been present before. He had not asked or inquired as to what had been shown or shared, but he knew that She had done what needed to be done.
And if Mercury was a glimpse of the talent, creativity and life within Osiris, then he was grateful that She had helped him see it. That there was something more to life than the pain he had endured.
That there could, indeed, be hope.
"Not interrupting, I hope?" Osiris asked, eyes flicking to the table. "Weaponsmithing?"
"In a sense," Valentin said, as he set the completed weapon on the table. "An experiment in replication."
Osiris' eyes flicked to the weapon and him. "Ah. I'd wondered about that. Not attempted it myself," he cleared his throat. "Sagira could tell you my experience with…replicating even simple things has had mixed results."
Valentin smiled under the mask. "Practice makes perfect."
"So it does," Osiris paused. "Shaxx said you wanted to speak to me."
"I do." With Osiris' return, activities he was appraised of on Earth, and the mobilization finalizing, it was time to act as She willed, and ensure that all was in place for the war to come. And Osiris would play a major role in it. "Return to Earth, make contact with Hamaza and the Resistance. Clovis prepares for war, and when he acts, so will we." He paused. "She had been active on the planet; more Chosen are acting unknowingly, preparing, spreading, and growing the movements of liberation."
"Is he now," Osiris crossed his arms. "How so?"
"He has made an ultimatum to the United Kingdom," Valentin said. "Alexandra II has been Chosen, and has made her status known to him, and he has promised an end to this struggle all the same. He believes he is ready."
"And how much is bluster?"
"He and the Triumvirate will fight," Valentin said. "It will not be enough. Not enough for what is to come. Their power was drawn from pain and death, and it shall be repaid in kind."
"Then so it shall be," Osiris nodded. " You said there are others acting 'Unknowingly?'"
"As we once were," Valentin said, nodding to Vigil. "They have been granted Ghosts, but not Light. That will come soon."
"Understood," Osiris scratched his beard. "My task is clear, but what of the rest of the Guardians here? Many are restless, and we cannot remain idle forever. While we may be outnumbered, we have power they do not."
"And we will not remain idle," Valentin promised, lifting a gloved hand. "Soon we will march on their installations here, and secure or destroy the machine they have created. This war is inevitable, but it will come at the right time. Not earlier. Not later. Earth must be prepared. I do not intend for this war to be unnecessarily prolonged. Our species has shed the blood of our own kind long enough."
"I'll defer to you, then, Speaker," Osiris nodded. "Then I will return to Earth, and ready the Resistance – and await the orders to strike."
"Good," Valentin said as he moved to leave with him. "Before you do though, come with me – because I also have a task for Shaxx to do at the same time."
SOMEWHERE IN ARABIA
It appeared to be the middle of nowhere.
Nothing but endless dunes, and barely-visible waves of sand being blown by the wind. The sun was slowly setting over the horizon, and despite the vast emptiness of the desert, there was a certain beauty to it that was difficult to explain. Milya hoped that this was the right place. Sara had teleported her, so she was certain it was.
Maybe she just had to wait?
It had taken a few days, but she'd received an answer from the Sandman - through his proxies, of course. It had been short, and nothing more than a series of coordinates together with a desire for a meeting. It could easily be a trap, but one that she doubted he would follow through on. Still, she suspected that she wasn't as alone as she believed.
One way to find out. Anyone else here?
Give me a moment. Sara flew a few meters forward, and her shell pulsed once and hovered in place for a few seconds. She returned to Milya's shoulder. No, in the immediate vicinity, we appear to be alone.
Hm, she supposed that would suffice. Although it made her wonder how the Sandman was going to come now. She wasn't honestly sure how this was going to go, presuming that he did show up. She'd chosen her side, but it was another thing to actually sell it to the one leading the most successful resistance in the region.
She had her plan, her resources, and Sara. That should be enough to work something out - and that she'd met his second in command might also help, even if that had ended poorly. For now though, Gala was distracted with his plot to secure the Middle East. And more rumors about war with the British were reaching them.
Things were shifting rapidly. Everyone was making their choices, as she made hers.
Sara suddenly floated to one of the dunes. I did detect this.
Milya peered in the direction of the Ghost, and just barely saw the red piece of plastic sticking just above the dunes. A few hours more and it would have been impossible to find in all likelihood. She trudged over to it, knelt, and started digging around the dune until she pulled out…something.
No, not something. She dusted the sand off of it, and flipped it over in her hands. Definitely a radio of some kind - a very, very old one. Used only by those who couldn't afford the better ones. Poor range, poor signal, but was very cheap and difficult to detect. It seemed this was how she was going to meet him. She put up the antenna and tried messing with the dials.
It crackled, and a distorted voice came through, speaking in Arabic.
"[It is said, among my people, that victory is not promised, but fighting is ordained upon us,]" the voice grew louder, clearler. "[So thusly, our lord has promised us. That he shall take martyrs from us. That as we drench the sands red, our honored dead are never truly gone. They are in the mercy of their lord.]"
A pause.
"[The price is steep, so steep, yet we fight, we fight and die, nameless, afraid, unremembered. Raging in the dark. Is that what you want with your life?]"
She fiddled with the radio, thinking before she spoke into it. "[Steep it may be, but if need be, yes. But I do not intend to die this way.]"
"[Then what do you intend, you, the coward who lived where all others died? You, who survived, while those like you died. Died in defiance.]"
Her nostrils flared; stung as she was by the biting accusation. Though one that she knew wasn't wrong. She had lived when the others had not, and she had been ignored; allowed to live because she was not a threat to them.
But things had changed.
And she would not waste this second change.
"[I intend to make sure their deaths were not in vain,]" she paused briefly. "[And I will do that by breaking the hold India has in Arabia.]"
"[You will betray your homeland. Your flag and nation? Your people?]"
She straightened up, not knowing if anyone was even there. "[No. I only betray the injustice I see. And those who are responsible for it.]"
Quiet.
Silence but for the whistling sands.
Then laughter.
"[Among the Resistance are a thousand and one causes. Some who fight under a flag, some who fight in the name of nation, some who fight for revenge, for hate, some who fight merely because they are empty. They have nothing else. I find all these causes petty. Only one cause ever was worthy of killing over.]"
"[And what cause is that?]"
"[To cast down the tyrants shrieking from their proud towers,]" the radio crackled, yet the passion and venom coming through all the same. "[To lynch their murderers and abetters. Their criminal horde. To turn their ivory palaces into dust, and upon their graves, build that which they denied us.]"
She nodded, alone in the dunes. "[To tear down the old order.]" She murmured.
"[They called me the Sandman as an insult, a mockery. It became a nightmare. A dread name for that which they made,]" there was a pause. "[But all the nightmares of the world cannot build peace and order. They cannot make right of old wrongs.]"
She didn't think he was wrong. A nightmare could only ravage and destroy.
What happened should a nightmare win?
"[They want India to burn, they want the Triumvirate to burn. But those fires would swallow us all,[" there was a solemn tone beneath the crackling radio. "[They would see your homeland burn, as you burned theirs. Your people brutalized. Old tyranny exchanged for new tyranny. Your savagery, for our savagery.]"
And that, she realized, was a final, evil victory of the Triumvirate. Through their methods and violence they were sure to create those who would emulate them, believing they were just as justified in repaying the pain that had been inflicted upon them.
And that was how a civilization, a people, and a nation was destroyed forever. By making sure that the core of it was always violence. Violence used against the invader, which would be turned upon the dissident, and finally upon each other. It would disintegrate any hope of something better, because the suffering had made it impossible for any other outcome to be possible.
She'd only seen a taste of it when Gala had directed her into that cell. How many more of those were there throughout Arabia? In India? Throughout the world? There was more purpose to it than to extract information; it was to kill any possibility of reconciliation, peace, or anything other than violence driven by hatred.
Ensuring that even if their grip was lost, what would be left would be no better.
"[Yet who decided that?]" a crackle of rage. "[Who made that our fate? Who made that our destiny? Who decided that all we shall be, is new tyrants to replace the old? No. No. It shall not be. Let us die and be reborn and die again, but not incur such crime against others. No.]"
The radio turned off.
A horseman strode forward, coming from behind, which she hadn't noticed. There was a turban wrapped around his visored helmet with a rifle in hand, covered in sand. He looked her straight in the eye, a small radio in his hand.
"[It will not be,]" the Sandman said. "[The tyrants will apologize for being born into our world. The honored dead will not be shamed. The promise of God shall not be dishonored. A thousand deaths, a billion brothers lost, everything we love burnt in the ashes, anything. But not that.]"
She looked up at him. "[You know who I am. You know I'm near the tyrant in Riyadh. I know about you as well, they call you a terrorist.]"
"[I am a terrorist, for I am a terror to their horde,]" he replied. "[For they fear us. They fear the flash of our rifles. Most of all, they fear that they cannot keep us in our graves.]"
Milya nodded slowly. "[They call you that, and they do fear. They lie about you, and that tells me much. Usually they do not have to lie, they do not have to exaggerate. But they do to you,]" She trailed off briefly. "[I'd wondered if you were real or a myth. I didn't expect you, with your reputation, to say…]" she gestured upwards. "[That. If anyone has reason to hate - it would be you.]"
The horse neighed softly, gently, he patted its neck. "[I once did,]" he said. "[But I have seen where hate leads. Where the ruthless go, what dark paths they lead themselves into. I have seen enough blood, evil, suffering and violence for a hundred lives. I spilled enough to no longer feel the shock of lives taken. I have lost enough brothers, to no longer feel the shape pains of their deaths.]"
She did not have to imagine what that had been like for him, or for any of them. In their situation, such ultimately became normalized. Yet she could hear in his voice that there was still that sorrow and pain, even if buried and numbed.
"[For if ends justify our actions, then the utopian fantasies of the most malevolent tyrants, are as equal to the most saintly benevolence of the just,]" he said. "[They do not. They never shall. We will never equivocate between good and evil.]"
There was some bitter cosmic irony, Milya thought, that men like Gala could rise so high in the ranks, while this man was hunted and called a terrorist. It was not a secret that such was commonplace in the Triumvirate. All that mattered was a willingness to carry out the mandate of nations; a desire to ensure the supremacy of the nation at the expense of all others.
The only thing that mattered was the ability to get results. To achieve victory, no matter what that victory would look like. No matter how it was achieved. Some of the monsters were easier to hide than others; Gala was difficult to hide to the world, but he was a symptom, she realized.
He was not an exception; he was simply the most visible.
What kind of society or system was the Triumvirate if such men could gain power? And how many more Galas were hiding, in the ranks waiting to rise, or who were able to manage their masks better?
Many.
Too many.
"[In the following weeks,]" the Sandman started. "[The Indians will begin a final assault into Israel. You doubtless know this, and across the world the Triumvirate prepares to strike one final blow. Our end is coming, and all men must take a final stand. A stand without equal. So I come to ask, face to face. Are you living to die, or dying to live?]"
What an odd phrase, Sara commented.
Milya smiled at that, as she answered. "[For much of my life I find I have been sleepwalking through it. Content to follow the commands of others, for fear of the consequences. No longer. Today I choose to live, no matter the cost or risk. I choose to hope in something better.]"
"[You stand at Gala's inner circle, you have access to his security codes, to his command channels, to his passwords, and automated weapons command network,]" the Sandman pulled at his horse, turning around.
"[Find them. Abuse them. Look not for a crack in the armor. You will find none. Else recognize that all strength is weakness of a measure, and all weakness is a strength, in a measure, make his own power his downfall,]" he said. "[Find those of your people alike you. Gather them. Lead them. I will not have Indians slaughtered. I will have us stand together.]"
She heard a smile in his voice. "[For what is our salvation from tyrants, if not the unity they so desperately divide us from?]" he asked. "[What is the salvation of mankind, if not the justice they fear?]"
She nodded. "[Indeed. Then that is what I shall do.]"
He appraised her from atop the horse; his voice gentle. "[You are a coward, Milya, but there is no shame in cowardice, courage is the triumph over cowardice. Show me a triumph. In the coming days of blood and fire, we will meet again.]" With a cry, his horse reared, and he was off.
Sand trailing in his wake, until he disappeared into the sand.
The Ghost made a noise, and bumped the radio. There is something inside it.
Milya didn't take long to find the chamber, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, she saw that it was a map of the region, from Egypt to Bangladesh. On it was drawn small tokens, with arrows and circles. Troop movements, she realized. On the back of the map was a list of names; those she assumed to be officers, and books, each with specific page annotations.
Sara's fins spun. Do you know what this is?
Milya reviewed the map, and the names of the books and officers. Many of the officers she recognized - and among those books she recognized the name of one of them. It was an analysis of generals who turned on their nations, and led insurgencies in their place. Topical.
It's a puzzle.
And the map she held in her hand was a hint.
She smiled to herself. If there was one thing she was good at, it was puzzles, and she had an idea of where this could be going. The Sandman was not going to hand her the answers, he wanted her to have a victory for herself. And that was what she planned to do.
"[I would not take everything he says at face value,]" Sara said. "[He is not honest. He may be an enemy of the Triumvirate, but one does not become so notorious by espousing the morals he claimed to hold. He knows you, and what would appeal to you. Be careful in trusting him.]"
Sara had a point, she had to admit. "[He didn't come out until he spoke with me first.]"
"[Yes, to get a grasp of who you were. He did not trust you.]"
"[I can't blame him,]" Milya admitted. "[I wouldn't hold that against him. He is risking a lot just meeting with me.]" She thought some more about him. "[I don't know if it was an act just for me. We've see his men and their loyalty. You can't pretend and inspire like they were.]"
"[Perhaps it is fear,]" Sara suggested. "[Or perhaps it is worse. Against a man like Gala…to adhere to his morality is dangerous, because their enemy has no such restriction. And yet he is holding his own. He is more dangerous than he seems, than even the Indians think.]"
On that, she was very convinced of. That was something to ponder on later though, and regardless of his actual intentions - she decided to believe that he was being genuine. For once, it was perhaps a good thing to think the best of someone, instead of the worst.
There were enough men to be cynical about.
"[Take me back,]" she told Sara. "[I've got some reading to do.]"
HAMAZA'S CHAMBERS | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL
It was to be another long night, one where Hamaza knew it was unlikely he was going to be able to sleep easily. He conducted his nightly prayers, but even after them, his mind remained unfocused and jumbled. It was a state of mind where the only remedy was to simply sit on a balcony, and wait for his mind to settle naturally.
He watched the sun fade down over the horizon, the twilight appear, and night assert itself soon after.
He listened as the bustling of the city faded into a quieter hum.
Listening and relaxing such as this did help to quiet his mind.
It was a slight miracle that this mental funk did not happen more often, especially as there was much that laid upon his mind as the days crept on and on. The stress grew and compounded; knowledge of what the toll would be cemented.
It felt like the coming war should be a continuation of what had already been taking place, but there was something about this which felt grander than a mere continuation; something more monumental. Their conflict had been small, limited and focused in only a few places. They were a minority; an insect against a giant.
Now there was a change. The world was a tinderbox, one that they could set aflame.
This war that was coming?
It would lead to an end, one way or another.
The clock kept ticking down closer to that fateful day. One where he knew not the day, nor the hour.
Only God knew the hour of apocalypse, and Hamaza had begun to wonder if that was truly what awaited them. If this was not merely the end of this long conflict, but the end of the world as they knew it.
When aliens such as the Traveler were involved, ones with such powers, he felt that it could not be dismissed so easily. When miracles and the supernatural occurred so often, it was difficult to ignore the implications of it.
Of course, there were a few other things that needed to happen for it to be a sign of the true end times, but as he was learning, anything could happen these days. Even meetings with Triumvirate turncoats.
That would be an interesting conversation.
A conversation that might be their salvation, and allow them a chance they would never has possessed otherwise - or one that would be disastrous. He was unsure there was a middle ground outcome to this – the best case scenario was that they would both walk away.
Though, if it went poorly, Hamaza knew it wouldn't be them who left worse off.
There was a knock at his door.
Hamaza frowned. That was unexpected. Everyone knew better than to disturb him during this time. In fact no one came this late unless it was an emergency, and the sound of the knocking was not nearly urgent enough to indicate an emergency. He checked his phone, to make sure he had not missed an important call. No, there was nothing.
Grumbling, he stood and walked to the door.
"It is later," he said when he was close enough to the door. "I will be available in the morning." He waited a few seconds, hoping that would be enough to deter whoever was on the other side. He was content to remain ignorant of whoever was disturbing him. However, if the individual continued to persist…
"Tomorrow then?" The voice answered.
Hamaza froze upon hearing it. That voice…it was one he knew. In fact, he had heard it many, many times before, but it was impossible. He would never hear it again outside of memories and computers. He wondered if his mind was slipping once again, if he was overly tired, and was starting to hear things.
However…he couldn't help but just confirm he was wrong.
With a trembling hand he unlocked his door, and opened it.
Outside of his door stood a ghost.
No, it could not be. This certainly was a dream, or some other ailment of the mind. For he knew that men did not return from the dead. Only the divine had power over life and death, and when men died, it was permanent. He had long since accepted that his friend had died that day, else he would have returned before now. That was what he'd told himself.
But what explanation was there for the specter who was before him?
"It's me," Isaiah Kane said, a smile on his face, as he reached out to gently grip Hamaza's hand to confirm he was real. He looked almost exactly as Hamaza remembered. His beard was a bit wispy, as if he'd not properly shaved for a few days, but otherwise nothing else was out of place.
At the same time, he immediately noticed the presence that surrounded him was different that it had been before. He had always carried himself with a violent, pained aura around him; pain that bled into all he was; repaid against those who had stolon everything from him. Eyes that had been hardened and underneath rested simmering fury.
Now…there was a softer presence about him. Pain that was till present, but which no longer overpowered. How it had happened, Hamaza could not begin to imagine, but he could not deny that his eyes showed that he had achieved some kind of peace in death that he'd failed to in life.
Without another word, both men embraced.
Yes, this was real.
"How?" Was all Hamaza managed in a small voice. "You are dead."
"For a time," Isaiah admitted. "But a lot has happened. There is a very long story to it." He looked inside. "But I can come back tomorrow…"
"Be silent, and come in," Hamaza tried mustering some of the authority he had once had, but certainly failed, the order coming out as a half-laugh. "By what madness is this possible if it is not a dream?"
"As I said, a long story," Isaiah said as he moved to sit on a nearby chair. "And one that you won't be able to guess."
"Then tell me," Hamaza said. "It is something I need to know."
AWAKENING CHAMBER | THE DEEP STONE CRYPT | EUROPA
There were some questions Clovis Bray had pondered at some point in his life.
What did it mean to be immortal?
What did it mean to be outside the grasp of time's decay?
What did it mean to be beyond the confines of mortality?
Such thoughts had been academic for the longest time, but it was only when the possibilities of the Exos had come into being that he had truly started to consider them; and only when he'd made the commitment to take that step had he pondered them deeply. Yet all of it had been academic until he'd taken the first steps in the procedure. When he'd shed his fine clothes for a simple patient tunic. When he'd felt the chill of the Deep Stone Crypt and had descended deep within it.
Ah, then it had become real.
It would have been tempting to change his mind.
He remembered the trepidation. The fear. The concern.
No, he was not immune to such things; this had been a reminder of that. He was Human, and he had not yet gone beyond being affected by such emotions. Yet emotion still could not control him; he retained that much over itself.
He knew what went into this procedure. He knew the mistakes that had happened, the risks he was accepting. He had seen it firsthand; he knew the cost that was associated with it. His mind was a precious thing; his personality unique amongst all in the world. Life itself was something special; that which he had enjoyed, and was willingly surrendered for a truthfully uncertain guess.
Most importantly, putting himself at a very personal risk. Allowing his mind to be tampered; to surrender it and place it's well-being in the hands of others.
Trust.
Trust was something he found that many in power found difficult to come by, and he found such a curious phenomenon, one which often led to the downfall of those in question. For certain, paranoia was sometimes justified – but those in power always had those who intended to depose them. Such was an expected trade-off of possessing power.
Paranoia was something worse; a pathology; a disease of the mind, one which dragged the one it infected deeper, deeper, and deeper until they were unable to discern truth from fiction.
Such men became trapped in their delusions.
It led to their ends as a result.
A pitfall he had strove to not step into. A leader who was not confident in the loyalty of those who followed him was merely a liar; to himself, his allies, and his nation. If one expected disloyalty, if one expected betrayal, they would find it – be it legitimate or otherwise. Why should he doubt the loyalty of the many brilliant Soviets who had devoted themselves to this project?
To refrain from undergoing the procedure would have been an indictment on their work; an intrinsic declaration that he did not believe it was safe, and if that was his true thought, then why was he allowing good Soviet men and women to undergo it if he refused to do so? No, Clovis had his own principles, and knew what was expected of a leader.
A leader did what was necessary for their people; for their nation.
For their species.
And if no one was willing to take the step, then he would.
So he had.
They had told him that the process would be quick, or at least he would perceive it as such. He had closed his eyes, but it had not been a simple period of sleep and awakening – or at least, he had not perceived it as such. The experience had been difficult to describe. It had been a chill; a coldness unlike any other.
A void.
Or a grave.
On some level, he suspected he had experienced death.
He had passed a threshold where there was oblivion on the other side. And there had been nothing. A state of in-between where he had not even been aware existed. A place where time had not touched him; where whatever had been Clovis Bray had been reduced to nothing, and cast into the morass of eternity. Such a threshold one did not come back from.
Yet he had opened his eyes all the same.
And knew he had ascended beyond that threshold.
"[General Secretary, can you hear me?]"
He could hear her.
He could hear everything in this room.
He could hear the computers that were running in the chamber; the leftmost one seemed to be running warmer than it should. He heard the idle conversation of two colleagues one room over, talking about developments on Earth. He heard a researcher coughing another room over, perhaps with a slight cold. He heard the air conditioning blowing, and the slight crackle of electricity.
It should have been overwhelming.
To an ordinary mind, it would be overwhelming.
But he was no longer ordinary. He was no longer mortal. He was no longer bound by the limits of biological design. So he heard the woman in front of him, while he heard and processed everything else. His electronic irises expanded and retracted as he took in each detail in the room, marveling at his own ability to zoom in and read half-covered paperwork on a nearby desk, or the diagnostics on a computer screen.
His mind would have once been unable to process such all at once. It would simply have been impossible. But he was not bound by the biological understanding of time. Time now was something that could be slowed or adjusted as he wished, and in his opening milliseconds of awakening, he slowed it down.
He remembered.
He was Clovis Bray, General Secretary of the Soviet Union.
The visionary of Humanity. It's protector from the deities who wished to subjugate it.
And he had a job to do.
"[I understand you.]"
His voice was modulated, but was very distinctly his own. They had taken care to preserve it. They had also said that they could make it so there was no inflection, but he had refused them. He would not pretend to be something he was not, he was a man within a machine, and the machine was a part of him.
Let them all know that.
The woman gave an obvious sigh of relief before moving to the next part of the protocols – he noted her nametag: Dr. Romanov. "[Excellent, excellent. I'm going to ask you to go through a series of motions. Some Exos report some disconnect initially, as their minds adjust to the shells. Do not be alarmed if this happens, its part of the process. Now, take three steps forward.]"
The exercises were simple, and Clovis dutifully followed them as expected. The side effects she had warned of did not manifest for him. Perhaps he was lucky, perhaps he was unique. He did not know, nor care. This was who he was now, and he appreciated these simple exercises for they instantly provided feedback on the capabilities of his body.
The physical sensation of feeling was a curious thing now; something simultaneously present and absent at the same time. He was able to catch a ping-pong ball between two fingers without difficulty, yet he would not compare the feeling to air on the metal that passed for skin as similar to actual skin. It was not like wearing a glove, like how it had been described, nor was it wholly natural.
It did not bother him. It was similar enough, and the ability to have effectively perfect control over his body was an acceptable trade-off. He innately knew every limit his frame would be able to reach; the exact weight that could be exerted. It was a level of information control that one could only dream of.
And he knew that he was a weapon unlike many others.
His new body towered over the scientists and engineers present. They treated him with a mixture of awe and respect, and Clovis idly noted just how fragile regular Human bodies were. He was durable, and could endure much punishment in this body, and in comparison…they could not.
All the more reason this was a necessary decision.
They went through more complex tests when the basics were down. They tested out every feature that had been embedded in his shell. The talons, the missiles, the small-arms attachments, and of course the Reality Anchors. No, the Traveler's capabilities would not be sufficient for dealing with him - She would have to kill him the old fashioned way.
He continued the stress tests. He saw in the eyes of the attendees their awe as they saw what their project had wrought. As they saw the potential of one who was free in a way they hadn't seen before.
As he moved faster than the Human eye could follow.
As he performed feats that they could only marvel at.
As he landed precision shots from a firearm in seconds.
He pondered how to describe this feeling.
This experience.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt unbound. Unbound to the entropic reality that chained Humans down. He felt as though he was a sterile, timeless thing. His body would never rot and decay. His body would never run down no matter how many decades passed. To be immortal bestowed a curious sense of detachment upon him.
It broke a shackle that he hadn't even realized was on him.
Time, as it turned out, mattered less than one thought.
Why worry about time when one had all of eternity at their disposal?
In an ironic way, he felt he understood the Traveler better than he had before. He understood her seemingly brazen arrogance and willingness to allow this cold conflict to drag out, for she also had all the time in the world.
It was not a true understanding, of course – but it was something he pondered in his thought cycles that were not devoted to the task at hand.
It really was a rebirth, though not in the way that the scientists had described. He was not simply reborn in a new form as Clovis Bray. He could not pretend to be the same, not when he understood so much more now, not when he could see this new reality before him.
Clarity.
Yes, that was the word to describe this.
What this experience bestowed.
Clarity.
For how else could one describe the ability to stand beyond time, to be capable of seeing and hearing so much, and intrinsically understanding one's limits?
As Romanov walked him through the exercises, while talking about how well he was doing, and that he had finished all of the preliminary exercises successfully, Clovis lifted one hand, beckoning her to stop. He had a question. "[My body. Where is it?]"
She seemed caught off-guard. "[It is…in cold storage, General Secretary. I'm not sure-]"
"[Take me to it. Please.]"
She was unwilling to defy his instruction, and nodded as she led him out of the Awakening Chamber. A hush seemed to fall over the hallways and rooms they entered. Everyone saw him. Everyone noted the hulking, towering form of the Exo marching through. And all of them knew who it was.
The Soviets saluted as he walked past, which he acknowledged with a nod and noted their names, ones which he would never forget now, storing them in his memory. Eventually they walked into a room that Clovis knew as cold, or at least that was what his temperature sensor told him.
The elements were no longer a bothersome factor for him now, at least in terms of comfort.
He saw the body on the table. It had been cleaned since the procedure. In fact, it looked surprisingly healthy. Perhaps paler than would have been healthy, but even though he knew the top of his head had been opened, it had been reattached, though his vision was able to note the stiches, ones which would almost certainly be cosmetically hidden if it was ever presented to the public.
The messiness of the procedure, the cost it had inflicted, hidden away, as if it had never happened.
"[We weren't sure what you wanted to do with it,]" Romanov said. "[If you'd have wanted it presentable for your family, or-]"
"[The sentiment is appreciated,]" he interrupted, his tone idle. "[But I am not dead, am I?]"
She swallowed. "[Of course not, General Secretary.]"
So worried of offense. He chuckled. "[It is an interesting experience to see one's own corpse, but one I find I can adapt to quickly. Such is life, and duty demands such adaption. The work the doctors have done is to be commended. All the same, it is of no further use. Burn it.]"
She blinked. "[The body, sir? I will arrange to have it done-]"
"[Not later,]" he corrected. "[Now. I want to watch.]"
She nodded. "[Yes, General Secretary.]"
So he watched as the body was moved to a cremation chamber. He watched the flamers turn on. He watched the hair burn, and the skin blacken. He watched the body that had once been Human turn into pieces of ash which floated and settled in the chamber. He watched, a melancholy feeling settling over him.
Feelings were different in his body. Real, but not like how they had been.
Different.
Not in a bad way.
He wondered what one should feel when they saw the body they had lived in for their entire life be destroyed. He was unsure, but he was certain it was a necessary step to take for him. There would be no questions as to who the real Clovis Bray is. None who would dispute the truth.
Of course, there would be those who did not accept; who would always question, but such men were irrelevant.
He was Clovis Bray, and his destiny awaited.
Without a word, he turned away from the cremation, content in what he had witnessed, as his mind was already processing what was coming next. "[Prepare the shuttle to Earth,]" he ordered Romanov. "[It is time I return home.]"
SOMEWHERE IN ARABIA
There were a few ways that Fox could have taken to the coordinates that Hamaza's Resistance had so helpfully provided. From what had been provided, he knew it was in Arabia, in what appeared to be a pretty desolate location. He had access to satellites and intelligence that gave him an insight into it before he'd departed.
From the location, and the requirements they'd given him, they clearly had people who knew what they were doing. It was done in such a way that it would be effectively impossible for him to pull off some kind of trap.
It was paranoid, but he didn't blame them. In their situation, he would be just as precautious.
However, it did tell him that they were still ignorant about certain things – namely the Ghost that accompanied him. So instead of arriving via a car, truck, helicopter, or other means of conventional travel, he had instead instructed Watcher-7 to teleport him near the coordinates. It would do good to dispel the illusion right away.
Set the tone properly.
He was hit by the heat first. A light breeze whipped sand into his pants and suit, as he materialized in the twilight of an Arabian evening. He found himself in what seemed to be a dilapidated, abandoned town, with many large dunes in the distance. Sand had overtaken the broken pavement, and the skeletons of buildings surrounded them.
A town that had been naturally abandoned, or had been destroyed by the Indians? From a brief glance, it certainly looked like no one had been here in a while. Whatever had happened, it wasn't recent.
On top of some of the ruined buildings, he noticed there were snipers covered in desert wear. Beyond them, he saw no more armed figures – although he wouldn't have been surprised if there were some more hiding in the dunes.
Though it was the people in front of him that commanded his attention.
Standing in the center was the Grand Ayatollah himself, who looked much frailer and older in person - though it had been a long time since he'd been anywhere near the public spotlight. His beard was short and wispy, his glasses had some grains of sand stuck to them, but he stood straight and alert.
To his right was a tall man, wearing desert gear, lithe, and was very clearly an operative of some kind. Fox knew a spy when he saw one, and if he had to make a guess based on his profile, he might be an Israeli operative. Perhaps Mossad, perhaps military. He didn't recognize him.
Beside that man was the only woman of the group, whose pale skin distinguished her from the others. The way she stood, and her clear ethnic difference didn't leave many options. British in all likelihood. He wasn't surprised either country was present for the meeting, considering how much both countries had invested in Hamaza's resistance.
To the left of the Grand Ayatollah was a man who looked like he could have come from the roaming Bedouins. Still, under the turban was a face that surprisingly didn't appear that old. He was among the tallest of the group, but despite his distinction, Fox didn't recognize him. One of Hamaza's lieutenants, perhaps?
And the last man…
The last man was someone that he - surprisingly – recognized. It had been a long time since he'd seen his name, and his face, but it was certainly one that he was never going to forget. It was especially intriguing considering the man in question was supposed to be deceased.
He inclined his head. "Hello there."
Hamaza's eyes, along with most of those present, flicked to the silver Ghost that hung by his shoulder. "Some things have become clearer now; why you have reached out. You too are a follower of the alien."
One way to phrase it.
"You can say that," Fox straightened. "I see that you also have a representative among your ranks." He nodded to the man with the Ghost at his shoulder. "One who is supposed to be dead."
"Along with a good many others," the man grunted. "Though I suspect you will not be surprised to learn that She has not been idle. Valentin sends his regards. I'm glad I made contact with Hamaza before you met. There might have been complications otherwise."
Fox exchanged a mildly annoyed look with Watcher-7 which, to the credit of the machine, did somehow manage to look bashful as it curved it's head downward as it bobbed, like a dog that had known it had done bad.
Now that might have been good information to know.
So, Valentin was alive.
He wasn't surprised to learn that his suspicions had been corrected, and the Traveler had been working behind the scenes as much as Clovis had been. He had not expected they included the literal resurrection of the dead, but that.
Well, that had implications.
Major implications.
"It seems I am in the rare position of being at a disadvantage," Fox said. "Who are you?"
The man nodded. "Osiris."
Almost certainly not his given name, and Fox wasn't sure it was his real one…although the man had spoken as if it was. The Egyptian god connected to the dead was a symbology that was not lost on him. Fox looked at the rest of the group. "I am familiar with the Grand Ayatollah, but not the rest of your people."
"Representatives of Israeli and British intelligence, respectively," Hamaza gestured to them, answering. "Jomar Liberman, and Arya Burns."
"Just tell the Triumvirate spy our real names, why don't you," the Israeli – Liberman – muttered.
"He has a Ghost," Osiris said. "He can be trusted."
"That," Arya said slowly. "Has not been determined yet."
Fox ignored the comment, and faced the unnamed Arab. "And you?"
"Shaheed al-Najar," the man answered. "We have not met, but I suspect you've heard of me. My reputation seems to have been growing among Indians – I would not be surprised if it has also reached the Triumvirate Intelligence Service."
"The Sandman," Fox nodded slowly. He had certainly heard about the leader behind the Arab's growing resistance, even as it was being hunted by the Indians. Very impressive, if all of the stories were accurate – and he had good reason to think that they were more accurate than not. Ironically, the Sandman turned out to be much younger than he'd expected. "I've heard of you, yes. You have indeed become rather infamous among the Indians."
Shaheed smiled. "I'd be disappointed otherwise."
Fox returned his attention to Hamaza. "I had come to reach an agreement with your Resistance concerning actions against the Triumvirate. Although now these revelations have clearly forced the need for some reevaluation."
"Which we can work through now," Hamaza said. "It does not change the core of why we needed to speak."
"Nonetheless, I dislike working with an incomplete picture," Fox looked to Osiris. "I will need to speak to Valentin as soon as possible, and ascertain the truth of the situation. It is clearly not what I believe it to be. If he is alive, and you are here, he and those who have been brought back prepare for war as well, yes?"
"Correct, and I concur you both need to speak," Osiris agreed. "There are many things you need to know."
"Indeed," Watcher-7 added. "It is soon time for you to fully enter your own role."
It was a sentence that sounded ominous, but Fox simply accepted for now. There was much to get through. "Am I wrong in assuming that there is little discussion on if an agreement is plausible between the TIS and Resistance?"
"Not quite," Liberman interjected, raising a hand. "You have a Ghost, but the fact that we didn't know about this before now doesn't engender trust. As far as I'm concerned, your reliability remains unknown, and there are matters that are unknown between both our parties." He shot a glance at Osiris. "Regardless of your alignment with the alien or not, we are clearly not aligned on what happens after."
That…was a fair point.
Fox suspected what came after might be contentious.
"And does that matter, if we do not reach that point at all?" Hamaza retorted, exasperation in his voice. "We are aligned in the removal of the Triumvirate – is that not enough for now?"
"I'm uncertain we are in alignment on that," the man looked back at Fox. "Indulge a question – how long have you possessed a Ghost?"
"Soon after contact was made," Fox indicated Osiris. "I believe it was not long after him, and the return of ARES ONE."
The man's lips twitched. "Concerning that the alien sanctioned one of the machines for you. You are better-positioned than any of us for the aftermath, should we succeed – and we know nothing about your current intentions or plans. That matters, and aligning ourselves with you without knowing the ramifications is foolish."
Fox clasped his hands behind his back. "My intentions such as they are, are straightforward. The Triumvirate is not something that can endure any longer, but a Triumvirate must ultimately succeed them. Our species must unite under one law, one banner, and one cause."
He lifted one finger. "However, rule cannot be maintained as it was. Power cannot be consolidated in the hands of a few countries, but dispersed to allow for a representative consensus of our species."
He met Liberman's eyes. "That means the end of the imperial powers of the world. With the Traveler, the modern understanding of the nation-state can finally die. We as a species can do better."
Both of the operatives tensed at that. "That sounds suspiciously like Clovis."
Fox narrowed his eyes. "Clovis is not incorrect in the need for Humanity to unite under one banner – but he wants it to be under his central vision and power. I want something that represents all of our species. Not a dictatorship, a republic with leaders drawn from the nations of the world. No more superpowers. No more secrets. No more subjugation in the form of neocolonialism."
"Our species has been under the specter of violence since the dawn of time," he continued. "Be it because of nation, race, religion, or ideology. Each of those has been utilized as something to divide us. It was why the Triumvirate was able to divide the world along ideological lines which endured today. The only way to solve division is to abolish it."
He returned his attention to Hamaza. "We have a choice before us – we can return to a period in the world where each nation was their own kings, and perpetuate the times that came before – or we can use this opportunity to forge a better future. Together. As one species. As one people."
"From your tone," Arya said slowly. "You are saying this as if you won't give a choice."
"Because there is not a choice," Fox pointedly looked at Osiris. "Your friend can affirm what I will tell you. We are part of something greater now, like it or not. There is something that pursues the Traveler, and it will come to us. We must prepare to face it, or we will be exterminated. No, I will not let our species be jeopardized. I will not let the specter of nationalism condemn our species to another cycle of division and violence."
Liberman whistled. "I feel we're going to have a problem."
"Will we?" Fox met his eyes. "I suspect that Valentin has come to the same conclusion I have. Osiris, do tell me I am wrong on this. The Traveler has picked Her side, and I know that I align with Her intentions. She has no intention in restoring the world to what it was, but allowing for something new to rise in its place. Something better."
"Is that so?" The Israeli demanded. "You – or she - will demand the subjugation of those who have fought the Triumvirate? Betray the freedom earned for a kinder tyranny of the Triumvirate?"
Fox shook his head. "The world has changed."
"But Humans have not," Arya interjected. "I would not trust the rest of the world to make decisions which affect us. We have fought for too long to be cast aside. Consider that we succeed – the billions of people will not suddenly change their minds and values. They've been warped by decades of propaganda. Unless you intend for yourself and the Traveler's chosen to dictate the direction of our species, there will be little change. This is who we are – and my nation at least will not submit."
"He knows that," Liberman muttered. "That's why this does not bother him. It is not only a continuation – but a fulfillment of the TIS vision."
This was clearly encountering some issues. Fox was mildly surprised he was arguing more with the Israeli and British agents than Hamaza. Still, with the revelation of Valentin's survival, as well as implications and important developments, their opinions were less and less important.
Shaheed suddenly stepped forward. "Peace, all of you. We are speaking of hypotheticals and unknowns. Emotions are high. Be calm."
"Tell us then," Liberman asked Osiris. "What is the Traveler's intentions for us? She is against the Triumvirate, but it seems there is some division on what comes after."
Both he and Osiris exchanged a look – and each of them knew the answer, almost at the same time. "She has no opinion," Fox said. "Or rather – She does not seek to impose Her will upon us. Her reluctance confused me for a long time – even though Her side is chosen. The reason for it is simple."
"Our future is in our hands," Osiris said. "If She wished, the Triumvirate would be ashes the following day. But She is not a tyrant, and if we are to be worthy, freedom and liberty must be seized by our own hands. She gives us the means to even the odds – but she will not be the one to win this war. Our future lies in our hands."
Osiris shook his head. "Perhaps Valentin may have clearer insight – he is Her Speaker. Yet I believe he would say the same. She will not tell us how to organize and rule our species – if she did, this would be simple."
"Then why are we deciding the fate of the world now?" Shaheed interjected. "Are we all so arrogant as to believe that between the six of us, that we have the only solution? Do we not give the rest of the world a voice? Do we not provide the African, the Chinese, the American, and the Hispanic the same opportunity to speak as we are now?"
He swept his hand in front of all of them. "What we are all agreed upon is this – the world as it stands must be torn down. What is built after it – that we do not; cannot know. I agree with Director Fox in his principle – that being that we as a species must decide what comes next. It cannot be decided by men and women standing in a desert, in hushed whispers."
"This," Shaheed emphasized to them. "This reminds me of the stories of how the Triumvirate was founded. Of when the superpowers secretly met, and carved up the world as the British, French, and Russians once did to the Middle East. And here we are, repeating the same action. We are speaking of deciding the futures of billions, without even pretending to give the rest of the world a say."
Fox had not expected the interjection from the young man – but he realized that he had not thought of it in such a way. So used to such decisions being made by the men of power and behind closed doors he hadn't considered the steps they were unintentionally following in.
It was a sobering thought.
However, he couldn't deny that it was a thought-provoking one. It seemed that both Liberman and Arya were also considering it. Osiris' face was impassive, and he could not discern exactly he was thinking.
Fox noticed Watcher-7 also observing Shaheed, fins twitching. Focused on him, almost appraising.
"Shaheed speaks an important truth," Hamaza said. "This is a poor setting for discussions of such gravity regardless, and all is academic if we do not win this coming war."
"Agreed," Osiris nodded. "In which case, we need to determine how best to accomplish this. Valentin has his own plan, which will begin on Mars. Earth, however, remains nebulous. It is one reason I am here."
"And one reason I have come," Fox added. "The TIS has made contact with multiple resistance organizations across the world, from South America to Australia."
"We have done the same," Hamaza said. "Though not enjoyed the success you have in some respects."
"Likely, but we can compare our contacts later," Fox said. "The present is a growing concern – primarily because the Soviet Union is preparing to invade the United Kingdom," Fox paused. "I'm sure all of you knew that. There is a question of what we will do – I believe the question should be when will we do it. I am of the belief that we should act first, and there are opportunities to accomplish this. If so, the second question is how we are to best instigate a mass rebellion. This will be impossible if the people are not – largely – on our side."
"A question with an easier answer than you think," Shaheed answered, rubbing his chin. "The majority of people simply do not know what the Triumvirate has done. It has been said that they have been inundated with propaganda, but it is a mistake to think that the majority are irredeemable. They simply do not know. Thus, we must reach out to them."
Arya snorted. "How?"
"A good question," Shaheed admitted. "Somewhere, and somehow that can't be ignored."
An idea came to Fox. "There may be a solution."
He had their attention, and Osiris motioned for him to go on. "Clovis has just returned in his…new body," Fox said. "There is a gathering he is going to attend – a gala of sorts with the most senior members of the Triumvirate. Media, oligarchs, the absolute elite of the world. I suspect he has plans for it, and if we wish to make a statement, there are few better places. Some rumors say that he is going to launch the invasion there, but I don't believe he will. What I do believe is that there will be no better place to send a message of our own than there."
"Doing what?" Liberman asked. "Attacking it?"
"No," Fox shook his head. "Infiltrating it – and then making an address of our own. One which can then be broadcast all over the world, as well as in front of Clovis Bray himself. The Warmind Rasputin is…sympathetic to us, and I believe he could assist in having that be possible. The problem is it would be dangerous."
"Dangerous," Hamaza muttered. "But possible."
"Very possible," Fox confirmed. "The Triumvirate does not know I am moving against them. It would not be difficult to get someone into that event using my connections. We would just need a volunteer – someone who is both talented enough to speak to the world, and best represents what we want to show."
There was a silence from the small group as they pondered that question. Then, as if one by one, they seemed to come to the same answer. The man in question suddenly realized the attention was on him. "That earlier speech was not an audition," Shaheed said slowly.
"Perhaps not intentionally," Fox smiled thinly. "But it was a sufficient one all the same. Provided you are willing, of course."
"If that is something I can do?" Shaheed considered. "Then I will."
"I believe that is a fine choice." Hamaza said.
"Indeed," Osiris nodded. "All that remains now is to prepare for it."
"Leave that to me," Fox promised. "It will be ready soon – and when it is, I will let you know immediately."
THE CELESTIAL MOUNTAINS | MARS
Valentin sat atop the peak of the highest mountain on Mars.
A peak where he could see for seemingly endless kilometers. The expansive beauty of the world was all before him; the numerous colors and vegetation that dotted the land as far as he could see. The numerous streams and rivers that cut through the ground; veins of the world they had resided on long enough that it felt like a home.
A home they would soon depart from.
And a home that he knew he could reshape as he willed.
Coming to this peak had been a passive activity of his over these past weeks, as he had rested here, unaffected by what should have been a debilitating chill. An activity where he remade the land to be inhospitable to any who would try and invade it. Where the once flat, open, and largely defenseless paths to the Celestial Mountains had been severed by new rivers, cliffs, or valleys.
Stone walls had been enacted near key entrances, and secret entrances and exits had been carved through the man mountains and caves. Such activities were likely unnecessary, and broke up the natural beauty of the original design. When this was done, he would return this place to as it had been before.
But not before.
Not before the war was won.
The clouds above him were disparate; white, puffy, and separated. They would be unlikely to form into a Martian storm anytime soon. However, he did not need to wait for nature to take its course. Not when he had the ability to kickstart the process.
He removed his mask. He opened his eyes to the luminous possibility of the reality.
He looked up, now able to see.
Bright, luminous potential surrounded all he could discern, from the land itself to the sky above. In the clouds he saw the numerous, infinite possibilities, all subject to the whims of the material law; a thousand different factors, with another thousand atop those own that dictated each second, of every day, of every eternity.
It was truly a marvel.
By all logic, such a reality like this should not exist. With so many differing, complex systems, all working together without issue, and with the potential for infinite adaption. Yet everything functioned smoothly; nature endured and provided marvels for those who paid attention, even if it was something as simple as making rainclouds.
His fingers twitched, as the Light surged through him. He knew what he looked like when he was in this state; he had had Vigil take a recording once. He was luminous, someone who seemed engulfed in the golden-white power. It was an unconscious side-effect from him; though he could not say he was wholly in his body.
He was somewhere else.
A taste of what it was like to be Her.
To emulate the essence of Creation was not a simple matter. Too easy it would be for one to lose himself.
Thus, there must be purpose to it.
Today, he intended to make a prelude.
A small gift to herald their return to the Triumvirate.
He began weaving the Light, turning possibility into reality once again. The necessary conditions he created; the needed nudges he provided, above the Celestial Mountains those who observed would see the occasional golden bursts and streaks in the sky, and sometimes every a soft glow over all of it, as if some strange lightning had infected it.
The sky began to darken. Clouds thickened and grew black with moisture.
Mars was a useful environment for creating storms; even the normal ones had become infamous for their danger. He knew the details of how they worked, he had once spent a day in the eye of one, and had disassembled it; learning its intricacies to employ at a later time, either for creation – or dissipation.
Today was the former.
The once-clear skies were now cloaked in gray and black, as moisture gathered; as winds manifested and the motion began moving the storm towards the BrayTech Futurescape. Valentin did not know if this creation would be perfect – this was his first true attempt at doing such, but if he had done this right, they would soon be hit with the worst storm they had experienced on Mars.
It would be one which broke all existing records, he had primed the storm for such a scenario. One which it would approach the closer it got; faster and faster it would spin.
He wondered what they would say.
As far as their instruments would tell, it would seem like the storm would have come out of nowhere.
Ironically, they would have been right.
He put his mask back on, and was able to see the world with more grounded vision.
Raindrops started falling.
Vigil suddenly appeared in front of him in a blue-gold flash. "[Speaker, there is a…situation.]"
Valentin raised an eyebrow. "[Elaborate?]"
"[We have visitors,]" Vigil bobbed towards the ground. "[An Exo managed to find their way here, along with…another.]"
Valentin did not fail to notice the uncharacteristic hesitation as Vigil finished. It was not the hesitance of confusion, but of…concern? Wariness? Vigil seemed to know who the other guest was, and he did not appear to necessarily consider that a good thing - albeit not something to be afraid of.
Yet.
It was strange nonetheless. No one should have been able to find them, but if it was just two, that was manageable. If they were scouting, that was not good, especially since if there were two, there were probably more. "[Triumvirate?]"
"[One of them is a Soviet model, but according to her, no,]" Vigil said after a hesitant moment. "[The other is…unaffiliated. Nor are they Human.]"
If alarm bells hadn't been going off before, they were now. Alien life was no longer a question, now that they had since had plenty of opportunity to come to terms with this fact - but it was still one thing to know, and another to encounter.
Another alien being involved did not bode well. It threatened to make a complicated situation even more complicated. Although, given the Vigil seemed to be aware of whoever this alien was, perhaps its impact would be more limited than he feared. "[Then there is no time to waste,]" he said. "[Take me there]"
Vigil's fins spun, blue-gold Light flashed from his iris and Valentin was immediately teleported to the front of the Celestial Mountains, where a small crowd had manifested. Shaxx was present, along with several armored Guardians carrying weapons. Fang was also there, a purple orb of energy swirling in his hand that he held at the ready, joined by a few other Guardians who were arming themselves with Light and its various elements.
There were two figures they were facing, the first was the Exo in question. As Vigil had said, it was a Soviet variant, and a clearly female one. It seemed to be the KGB submodel, judging from the rounded faceplate. A hood covered her head, and blue irises shined with an electric light. Curiously, the colors she wore were blue and grey, not the red and black of the Soviets.
There was a clear discomfort around her, and it wasn't just because of the very suspicious Guardians who were pointing weapons at her. And as Valentin noticed, nearly all of the weapons were pointed at the figure who stood next to her - and for good reason.
The one who stood next to the Exo was dressed in heavy traveling gear, colored dark greys and total blacks. Every piece of skin was covered. Gloved hands were clasped together in front of a trench-coat like garment that extended past his knees. The figure possessed some kind of strange device or backpack that hung from its shoulders.
The only color on the garment were three symbols emblazoned on the chest of the clothing - all of them circles, with lines crossing within them, forming different shapes. These were colored white, and seemed to glow with an otherworldly fire. Or perhaps it was because all other colors seemed to be drained around the figure.
A hood covered its face, and as Valentin peered closer into it, he saw only an unnatural darkness, and unsettling wavering of…something that extended from the hood, appendages or tricks of the light, he could not say. What he did see was the bright orange eyes that stared out from the hood.
This is…not right.
There was something inherently wrong about the figure in front of him. Where the world was a luminous thing, this alien stood apart from it. Where he saw possibility in all things, the only thing he saw when he saw through the eyes of the Light was…
Nothing.
He altered his mask to be able to truly see, certain that he was missing something. For there could be nothing that stood outside the reach of the Light; the reach of creation itself.
Yet there was.
In a world of golden Light and endless possibility, there remained a void in the outline of the alien before him. A stain; a darkness upon it. An unnatural thing that was not supposed to be here.
Already, he was unsettled.
Yet one thing he did notice. This alien was a darkness upon the reality they stood in - but this was not the Darkness they feared. This one was not malicious. It was…something else.
Valentin looked at Shaxx. "How did they come?" He asked in a low voice.
"Walked through a portal created by that…thing," Shaxx said, in an equally low voice. "It wants to speak to you, supposedly it has a message to deliver - as does the Exo. This thing isn't natural, Speaker."
"I noticed."
"No, it's like us," Shaxx muttered. "Not exactly, but it's paracausal. Can you see it?"
"I can."
"And what do you see?"
A long pause.
"A void."
Shaxx at least understood the implications of that. Fang and a few others were looking to him for directions, ready to open fire or unleash the Light if he gave the word. "Are there any others?" He asked.
"Not as far as I can tell," Shaxx indicated the area behind the visitors. "I've sent a few of our scouts to make sure. I don't think it'll take them long."
"Good. I'll handle this."
Even though both Valentin and the alien were both smaller than the Exo, there was no real question over where the power lay. Valentin addressed the alien, since between the two, it was the one who should be addressed. "My name is Valentin Kozhukhov, Speaker of the Traveler, and Commander of Her Guardians. You trespass on this place, outsider. State why you have come."
Exos could not express emotions as well – but it was well enough that Valentin could see recognition on the face. She recognized his name. Perhaps not surprising – many had known it.
"Greetings, Lightbearer," the alien said in flawless English, in a deep voice, although one with a distinct alien timbre. "Your Guardians may lower their weapons. I pose no threat to them, or to you."
"So you say," Valentin nodded. "And who are you?"
"This one's name is Xûr, a vessel of the Nine," the alien answered. "I am here on their behalf, and to offer your Lightbearers an opportunity to learn."
And already, new questions arose. "The Nine?"
Xûr indicated Vigil. "Your Light-Vessel knows of what I speak, of what I am, and what I offer."
Valentin glanced at Vigil. "[For later,]" the Ghost said, bobbing in the air. "[But tread carefully. The Nine and their vessels are to be treated with caution. They are not allies, nor enemies. This is not an individual. This is, as he says, a vessel.]"
"[Indeed, Light-Vessel,]" Xûr laughed in perfect Russian, an unnatural sound with his alien voice. "[My will is not my own - which you are intimately familiar with, as each of us serves our masters without pause.]" the hooded alien shook his head, reverting to English. "But first, I come with this Exo, who has her own message to share. We will converse afterwards, Speaker."
"Very well," Valentin turned his attention to the Exo. "You know me."
A nod. "[You're supposed to be dead.]" She said in Russian.
"[I am. Who are you, and why are you here?]"
"[My name is Elsie Bray, formerly of the Soviet Union, formerly of the Triumvirate Intelligence Service,]" the name triggered some murmuring among the assembled Guardians, at least those who spoke Russian - though 'Bray' came through clearly. All of them were waved down by Shaxx, as Valentin kept listening. "[I was directed here to deliver a message.]"
Valentin indicated Xûr. "[From him?]"
"[No.]" She turned and pointed from the direction she had come; from the direction of the Futurescape. "[On behalf of the Warmind, Speaker,]" she said, returning to face him fully. "[Rasputin has learned of your existence – he requests an audience – and wishes to propose an alliance to act against the Triumvirate.]"
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER XX | CATALYST
A/N: Hello, and I hope all of you reading had an enjoyable holiday. Apologies for the delays in between posting, but I hope that the wait time is reflected in the quality of the chapter. A very special thanks to Edumesh for writing the vast majority of the Osiris vision, and King for helping with the Milya scene as well as a few other touches here and there. This took a while to come together, but I'm very happy with the result, and I hope all of you are as well.
I'm hoping chapters will come a bit faster now since the holidays are done and I have a bit of a better writing rhythm now, but at this point, best not to make promises - but I will make an effort to get the next one out before Witch Queen. And don't worry - the build-up is coming to an end. The next chapter is called that for a reason.
Expect things to properly kick off there. I've been looking forward to showcasing what the Guardians in this AU are truly capable of.
Thank you all for reading.
- Xabiar
