ACT III | THE TYRANT'S HUBRIS
CHAPTER XXII | ANTIPHON
THE KREMLIN | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION
Everyone in the room stood at attention as Clovis entered, flanked by Luka and Commander Calumet. The other Soviet officials, both civilian and military alike, had arrived prior, and were in their places. Their uniforms pressed, their stature impeccable, and their faces stern.
On the outside, at least.
They were only one party to this meeting – one which had numerous high-ranking officials from across the Triumvirate. The Chinese had sent one of the Politburo, as well as several ranking Communist Party members and generals – though not any of their own high command, Clovis noted.
Likely managing the numerous revolutions in mainland China – which was to say nothing of the Mongolians, Vietnamese, and Australians launching insurrections of their own. Understandable, and so long as there was representation here, it was sufficient.
The Americans had also send a delegation of their own – though strictly a military one, and it was the smallest out of the delegations. However, one of the Joint Chiefs was here, which meant anything said would be certain to reach the desk of the President. Like the Chinese, the Americans were dealing with problems on their side of the hemisphere.
The Indians had come in full force, with now-President Ishwar Sardar himself in attendance, together with the majority of his military command. The President was the slowest to stand, and Clovis decided not to take that as a slight. All of them were under a certain amount of stress now.
Be they American, Soviet, Indian, or Chinese, military or civilian – he noted that each one had directed their full attention to him. In their faces, which he scanned, analyzed, and judged in seconds, he could see their real feelings. Some thought they could obscure their feelings before him; hiding behind airs of professionalism or neutrality.
All to pretend they were calm.
Perhaps at one time, this would have worked. Now, it was not even a strenuous exercise.
They were like books to him. He could see the smallest twitches in their faces, and dilations in their eyes. He could hear their heartbeats, notice their quickened breathes, detect elevated levels of perspiration, and piece together the physical signs of the terror they exuded. In their eyes were many emotions. Terror. Fear. Hopelessness. Sorrow. Loss.
For some, they no doubt wondered if this would be the end.
So to him, they looked.
They looked to him for the solutions.
He idly wondered how quickly Humanity, even under the vaunted Triumvirate, would have capitulated to the alien if he had not been here. How quickly would they have succumbed to the rule of the alien? A curious thought experiment – but not a relevant one.
He was here, and he had a job to do.
This was what his purpose was. What his role had evolved into. When the legs of Humanity buckled, it was he who would keep his people upright. In him all mankind found their protection, a bulwark against all which threatened to bring it down, and enslave it to the divine masters.
There could not be fear. There could not be despair.
Such could not be afforded.
For you have one more card to play. I know you do.
Much of the recent events, it felt like, was bait.
Revolutions. Revolts. Even the defense of the British Isles. Everything of relatively minor cost, and major enough that it would cause most men to overreact. To engage in the long-awaited war – on the terms of an enemy.
Such tantalizing bait to see what he would do next, to force him to show his hand, or succumb to the baying of his advisors who insisted he do something. This devastating and embarrassing defeat against the British, revolutions and riots in his backyard and across the world, it was all engineered to provoke a reaction, one that was oh-so-tempting to give into.
Temptation he would resist.
Those who challenged the divine could not let themselves succumb to their base emotions, and instinctive reactions. It was fortunate he could see this – though he expected there to be challenge to his seeming apathy, if not outright confusion. Never had he been one to take a blow to the face and not strike back without equal or greater strength.
Ah, it would come, but not now.
Not yet.
When one aimed for the divine, they'd best not missed.
For this was not about mere nations now - it was bigger.
He sat down at the head of the table.
The room waited.
He looked around the table, eyes lingering on each one for a few moments. He waited, letting the tension linger, to see if anyone would speak first. No, no, they were waiting for him – so he obliged, in English for the benefit of everyone present. "Speak your minds. These crises demand solutions. Ones sooner than later."
Calumet swallowed, and braved speaking first. "The failure of Fall Britannia demands a response. Britain must be razed to the ground."
There was a slow consensus of nods from the other Soviet generals – this they were clearly unified. The rest of the delegations appears to lend their tacit support, though truthfully, Britain had and continued to be a Soviet concern.
"We have Warsats in position. Our forces have…retreated," Calumet grimaced, continuing. "The Traveler has shown its capabilities – which we've been preparing for. What happened cannot go without reprisal, because they will be coming here next. You saw what Alexandra nearly did."
"I am acutely aware," Clovis answered, the image of the rising tsunami clear in his mind. "This was a defeat - but it will not be the only one. Nor can one defeat be something that poisons our minds and makes us think victory is impossible."
It was too much for one man in the room.
"Are you delusional?" President Ishwar Sardar demanded, his voice tinged in fear and outrage. "After what you just saw, after what we are facing, you accuse any of us of exaggeration? Declaring our minds poisoned because we nearly saw Europe drown? Do you even know how many soldiers died, what was lost?"
A few Soviets turned their attention to the President, and even some of the Indians looked alarmed, but Clovis merely raised a hand. "At ease, let him speak. Better we be clear and honest now. I am accusing no one of exaggeration. I am merely pointing out that there has been but one battle – one which went decisively against us – and the stench of defeatism is one I can already smell."
"Then give us reason to not worry, General Secretary," Sardar's eyes flashed. "Your own generals are demanding a response, one you presumably have not given them. How are we supposed to fight something like that? While our nations are in the midst of revolts backed by this alien?"
"Because, Mr. President, we have not yet begun to fight," Clovis almost missed the ability to smile – but tone, and certain other parts, conveyed the sentiment just as well. "Britain was a target that the Traveler could not afford to lose. Therefore, there needed to be reaction. We learned it. Now we know what the Ghosts mean. Now we know what powers will be used against us."
"And that is it?" Sardar demanded. "This was merely a massive gambit?"
"Not a gambit, an opening move," Clovis clarified. "The Soviet forces are ones of convention. Easily enough to defeat any mortal insurgency, and advanced beyond all expectation. Our soldiers are invincible, our machines unbreakable, and our tactics sound." He let the words hand. "Yet how well does that stand against one of such divinity who raises a hand, and the ocean bends to her will, and rains turn to snow?"
A finger snapped. "Poorly, as we can see. We have more soldiers. We have more Exos. We have more ships. We have more machines. And when we don't? We will find more. We will make more. Because this war will not be won or lost quickly, Mr. President. It will be one of phases, of time, victories and defeats, rises and falls. It is a campaign. It is a war. And we must once more acquaint ourselves with what it means to wage war."
"But…" An American general said hesitantly. "This is no ordinary war."
"No, it is not, it is something far greater and grander than mere war," Clovis stated. "It is the evolution our species must undergo. Wars were once fought for resources and food. They were next fought for nation and ideology. Now we fight for our species, and the fates laid before us. Submission, and servitude – or liberation."
One finger lifted, pointing to the ceiling; to the sky. "We see God, and we see impossibility. We see inevitability. We see miracles, and the yawning fear of the unknown grips us. Thus, we revert to our primitive, fearful state. We must push past this, we must understand that there is no inevitability threatening us. We write our destiny – it is not for an alien to take. I know our species is strong enough to achieve this."
He met the eyes of the general, speaking not just to him – but everyone in the room. "No, this is not merely a war. It is Humanity's catalyst. One which will define us - forever."
He let the silence linger again, as he looked around the table. "These are the stakes. I have alluded to them before, but now I believe it has sunk in. This is what we face, if there are those who wish to surrender to the alien, then leave now. Choose your side - for there can be no hesitation for what this will demand of us."
There was silence in the room. Glances between people. Sentiments conveyed through eyes and expressions.
His point had been made.
Then a person stood.
"You will doom us with your hubris," Sardar said, voice shaky. "I will not be part of it. I cannot. We need to come to terms with these people, and must do so now before it grows into something that cannot be stopped. You have no idea what you unleashed by killing that Arab, General Secretary. No idea."
Clovis merely met his eyes. "I know very well what I did. Are you going to flee? Run to the alien for asylum and beg for its mercy?" He waved a hand to the exit, tone contemptuous. "Go. Run to your death. You are an enemy; a leader of one nation they have marked for destruction. Do you think they will welcome you? That they will reward you?"
"And tell me what I should do?" Sardar demanded. "I see a war against these forces, and I only see death for my people and nation. I would rather risk speaking to these people, and even considering concessions, than embrace the annihilation you promise."
It seemed that India had an unfortunate penchant for leaders who balked in the face of pressure. He had little use for it anymore, nor a desire to engage – though there remained no concern. He looked to the Indian generals who'd accompanied their President. "Do you agree?"
Their faces were stony, but he could tell they did not share the same cowardice their leader did. Anger, embarrassment, shame, each he could detect, and one by one, they simply turned their attention away from their presumed superior – and to him.
All that he needed.
"Our duty is clear, General Secretary," one of them said. "We will not surrender to the alien, nor deign to give these terrorists and traitors the legitimacy they crave. The Triumvirate will be preserved, no matter what must be done."
Clovis looked to Sardar. "Go."
His voice he turned hard. Cold. It was not a request now, it was an order.
You choose your side. Bear the consequences.
Sardar's face became pale as he saw that he was completely and utterly alone. Still, Clovis had to give the man some respect for sticking to his convictions, disappointing as it was. Another President of India would step up – and Sardar would get exactly what he deserved. Without any more words exchanged, the President stood, and left the room.
Luka raised an eyebrow, leaning over and speaking in a low voice. "[Do you think he will be a problem?]"
"[No,]" Clovis answered. "[Let him defect if he wishes. He can change nothing, and these Guardians will kill him. We can likely get more use out of him this way.]"
"[Concur, but he could cause problems before he,]" Luka's eyes darted to the door that Sardar had walked out of. "[Leaves. He still retains power.]"
"[And he is a coward, he knows his only recourse is to flee – before he is removed,]" Clovis said, returning to the matters at hand. Luka returned to an upright position, features schooled. "While the departure of President Sardar is unfortunate, there is work to be done – and a war to prepare for. I do not think this is the final revelation our enemy has to show us. Such requires one final push."
They waited for him to elaborate. "There are issues to resolve," Clovis said, nodding to the other delegations. "The Confederation and Communist Empire are contending with their own unrest, to which the Soviet Union will offer support, if it is requested."
"Through what means, General Secretary?" An American asked. "They have these Lightwielders embedded in them. Conventional responses will fail."
"Correct," Clovis said. "However, they are few in number – and we have fortunately been preparing for such…eventualities. Luka?"
"General Secretary?"
"The Izanagi Battalion."
"Of course," Luka stood. "We have been expecting for the Traveler to wield paracausality on the field of battle – what remained unknown was the form it would take. Now we know it appears to be through these agents – self-declared 'Guardians.' This is convenient for us, as we have developed weapons in particular for dealing with the unit we are aware of first – the Ghosts."
"Based on what we have observed," Luka continued. "We believe the Ghosts act as a supporting force to these Lightbearers, and are likely able to perform smaller-scale displays, similar to what we've seen from these Guardians. We've developed several weapons in conjunction with the Black Armory to mitigate this concern."
He pressed a button, and a few holograms appeared; suits, a sniper rifle, and other equipment. These were shown with an equipped soldier. "This has resulted in KGB Division Alpha-Three-One – or the 'Izanagi Battalion,'" Luka continued. "Intended to terminate Traveler-designated leaders, potential paracausal operatives, and suppress domestic revolt. Colonel Satou is prepared for deployment. We have him prepared to bring Warsaw back under control. General Secretary?"
"Confirmed," Clovis affirmed. "We expect the results of this field test will demonstrate our ability to retain control of our nations. Upon success, we will prepare to deploy the Izanagi Battalion throughout the Triumvirate. Without these Guardians, these revolutions will fail."
The hologram was removed, and instead it was replaced with a hologram of Africa. Clovis looked around the room. "Africa has declared their own intentions – and it is time they be brought to heel – and that is where we will force the Traveler to reveal her final hand. Commander Calumet?"
"Yes, General Secretary."
"It's time to bring everyone up to standards," he said. "We are united on this front – and what has been developed, and prepared for, is available to us. I know that there are those present who are aware of these projects, but I know there are just as many who are not. In particular, GJALLARHORN, RAGNAROK, and GABRIEL."
There were many confused faces, and shaken heads.
Clovis nodded, settling in. "Inform your superiors or relevant officials that today you will be occupied. There is much to go over, and much to share. We have a war to win – and we will do so, to the best of our ability."
ADDIS ABABA | ETHIOPIA
The atmosphere as he walked among the city was one of fear.
Fear that was understandable, but which permeated like a disease. Emotion was contagious, and fear was one of the more insidious – and dangerous - emotions that could spread on a wide scale. Fear led to despair, despair led to hopelessness, and hopelessness led to defeat. There was a reason morale was treated as a security concern among both governments and militaries.
The disparity between forces could be lessened if the men believed in their cause; if they believed in their victory.
Here, there was only the anticipation of terror.
He entered from the edges of the city; a city that had been locked down as African leaders, soldiers, and officers had converged on Addis Ababa, which had been designated as the unofficial capital of the African cause. They, who had all banded together against a common foe. Despite seeing the forces arrayed against them, each one had made the decision to stand defiant, and united.
If that was not a reason to have hope, then very little was.
Upon his approach, the soldiers guarding the checkpoints into the city initially tightened their grips on their weapons – but paused when they got a closer look, and saw Vigil hovering above his shoulder. They let him pass without intervention, though one of them spoke into his walkie-talkie, almost certainly informing his superiors of the strange individual who had arrived.
Valentin continued walking further into the city, only passively acknowledging the stares and looks he got from the people on the streets. The days were taking a toll on them, even more than they would normally. Old clothes covered their thin bodies; weariness written on their exhausted faces, as all of them looked at him with expressions of confusion, uncertainty - and then hope.
Hope not through him, however – but Vigil.
They looked at his Ghost, with a newfound interest. They'd heard what these Ghosts were, what they meant. Many kept their distance from him all the same, but word of mouth was already beginning to spread. More soldiers posted throughout the city now carefully moved around him.
He paused his walk, as a little boy had taken a few steps closer, eyes wide as he looked at the Ghost. Valentin smiled under his helmet, as Vigil floated down to the boy, who reached out hesitantly to touch it. Vigil's fins wiggled as he was touched, the boy giggled.
Valentin looked to the boy's mother, who seemed touched by the display. She managed a smile, happy for her son, though Valentin could see that the woman was ill. Nothing overly serious, merely an illness likely brought on by stress, but even small things could compound. He approached her slowly, which she allowed.
With one hand, carefully, clearly, and deliberately he rested one hand on her shoulder, letting the Light flow through him as he purged the infection from her body. "[Be not afraid,]" he said in her language. "[Hope is not lost.]"
She blinked, mouth half-open in a gasp as he let go, and as he stepped back. She could only begin processing what had happened, as he continued onwards. He was glad that she would be better when she returned to her home – but there were more who needed help here than just her. The small crowds were growing larger, comprised of citizens and soldiers alike, who nonetheless kept a respectful distance.
They followed until he reached the nominal center of the city, one that happened to have a small garden square in it. That would do fine. He walked to the center, and knelt down, taking off his mask. He gently set it to the side, and rested his hands on his knees as he let himself be a conduit for the Light.
His vision unobstructed, he saw everything.
Not bound by the biological limitations of his eyes, so much fell within his gaze.
It was a city steeped in the mortal rot and realities that could not be avoided. Physical illnesses, brought by vermin, germs, and rot; and the emotional plagues of despair and fear. Yet beyond those, there were everyday troubles faced by the people. There were those who were dying on the streets and in the hospitals. This was the reality that these people lived in, which could not be efficiently addressed by those in power.
But that was not the reality he envisioned.
That was not one he would accept.
Valentin began to glow with an otherworldly, warm, and glorious Light; a white-gold that extended around him; an aura that enveloped him. And aura that first spread to just the city square, then it extended further to the inner city, and then beyond. There were many who were unaware of his presence, and they would only notice small, subtle things – but notice them all the same.
There was a new vibrance in the air; colors which seemed brighter than before. Energy filled their bodies in ways that seemed alien, having been without it for so long, tired and exhausted as they had been. Those who were sick marveled as they recovered before the eyes of the doctors. Even those with severe deformations and injuries were not immune, as the blind found their eyes restored, the deaf able to hear, and those who'd lost limbs regaining their function.
Time did not matter to him in this state, for he saw not the time this took, but the lives that were being changed for the better. No matter what happened, those who had been forgotten and hurt now would get new chances at life. For it was new life that he brought with him – life to give hope, and hope that would vanquish this disease of fear.
Though time mattered to others – and now it seemed that the people he'd come to meet had arrived.
He slowly ended the trance, and the Light bleeding out of him dimmed, like a faucet being turned off. He rose to his feet in one smooth motion, placing the mask back on his face, ending the golden luminance of the world, and letting him see it through mortal eyes once again. He turned to face a man in an Ethiopian military uniform, with a beret on his head.
He was tall, just taller than Valentin himself, and his wiry black hair cut short. His face was set in a stern, almost grim expression. Eyes were similarly hardened, though viewed him with a certain curiosity – not suspicion. Valentin supposed the man was Ethiopian judging from the uniform, though the only clue to the man's ethnicity was his dark skin.
Such things, he supposed, were not important right now. Such sectarian divisions they were beyond.
"Who are you?" He asked, his English clear, though somewhat stilted. It was a voice strangely devoid of emotion, yet simultaneously filled with meaning.
"My name is Valentin Kozhukhov," he said, removing his mask before the man. "Speaker of the Traveler, and Leader of the Guardians."
The man's eyes widened, for the first time showing emotion on his face. He spoke after a few seconds, his incredulity clear. "Valentin Kozhukhov should be dead, and yet you stand before me." The corners of his lips curled up. "Another lie of the Triumvirate."
"Not precisely," Valentin placed the mask back on. "In this instance, the Triumvirate did not lie. They did kill me, knowing that it was their only option. As far as they know, I am still dead. However, death is only an inconvenience to She who holds power over reality itself."
"The alien." The man nodded. "Hmph. I suppose only such an entity could manage this. Though I did not imagine it had such…power."
"Few do," Valentin said. "Power on such a scale is difficult to grasp."
"So it seems." The man looked around, at the garden which bloomed with new vibrance; at the people who talked excitedly amongst themselves. At the air itself which seemed more alive. "Why did you do this?" His voice was almost musing, as if it wasn't directed to Valentin specifically, but asked to the air itself.
"Because it is my duty," Valentin began to pace around the garden square. "I am not here to merely bring the downfall of the Triumvirate – I am here for those who have been forgotten, for those who suffer affliction and pain, for those whose lives have been stolen by accident or circumstance. I am not just here to tear down the old world - I also intend to build a better one."
He motioned around. "And if I can provide some relief to your people who face the might of the evil bearing down upon you? Then that is what I will do. I do not come here an expect your immediate trust – therefore I hope my actions will demonstrate my intent."
"If that was your intention, then I would say you succeeded," the man inclined his head. "I have had reports relayed to me already. Men cured of illnesses. Crippled patients able to see and walk. Plants growing before the eyes, pests and rot melting away. I had been uncertain of the stories. There are many rumors, but I do not ascribe to fantasies and false hopes. Yet this Light you possess…" he trailed of. "It appears it is real. All of it."
Valentin nodded. "You doubted?"
"In my experience, false hope is more dangerous than doubt; skepticism safer still. It is one thing to hear of such feats, and easy to dismiss them as a result" the man admitted. "Yet when you see them with your own eyes…It forces a…reevaluation, I suppose."
Valentin extended a hand outwards, a gesture to the city around him. Only a simple question to ask now.
"Do you believe now?"
A hand now extended to the man, an invitation to seize.
The man took his hand firmly. "I do."
The shake was firm, as the man grimaced. " I apologize…Speaker Kozhukhov. I am Field Marshal General Saladin Azmera, formerly of the Ethiopian Army – now of the United African Forces. While I appreciate your actions today – I hope I am not wrong in presuming you have come to assist with the impending invasion against our nations?"
"I am," Valentin assured him.
Saladin motioned for him to follow, as the crowds pre-emptively made way for them to leave. "Then walk with me, Speaker. The Triumvirate prepares to wage war, and there are things you need to understand."
UNITED AFRICAN COMMAND CENTER | ADDIS ABABA | ETHIOPIA
It wasn't far too the city's military command center, a building where the defense of Africa was being coordinated. Saladin, as he escorted Valentin into the building, without outright saying it, appeared to be the primary individual in charge. However, as he was led into the large room where many other officers were present, there were representatives from all over Africa. Generals from South Africa, Somalia, Nigeria, Angola, and the Congo had taken senior or major roles, with other African officers fulfilling other administrative roles.
Each of them looked stressed and tired, though were used to pushing beyond their physical limits – especially when facing existential threats. Valentin could see that there remained some lingering tension between some of them – as there were histories between certain nations, but everyone was doing their best to push past this.
There were more important matters to attend to.
His arrival had been met with relief and new hope – they didn't seem to know exactly what to expect from him, but news of Britain had gone around the world. While there were only grainy and primitive videos of the people with Ghosts causing chaos and havoc against the Triumvirate, as disinformation concerning Britain from the Triumvirate - they knew that having him here would be a boon.
Learning he was also a man who was supposed to be dead was also a surprising development for them.
Still, they quickly moved on to the relevant matters at hand. Saladin had not wasted time, in getting to discussing the impending Triumvirate invasion of Africa – and where it would come from.
"[Pushing through the Sahara is unlikely,]" Saladin said, resting a finger on a large map spread out over a large table. Knowing that Valentin could understand their native languages, Saladin had elected to speak in it, for the benefit of some of the people in the room whose English or Russian was less comprehensive. "[The Triumvirate forces are primarily tech-heavy and mechanized. Deserts wreck havoc on that, which means that they have two likely areas of attack.]"
Two spots were circled. "[The first is a naval invasion hitting West Africa, likely Liberia, Guinea, or Sierra Leone. This is possible, but we've not seen indication that this is being prepared.]"
"[Most of their naval forces are tied up. Britain demanded a commitment,]" another general commented. "[Air drops are possible, but have their own vulnerabilities.]"
"[Agreed. It's too risky, even for them,]" Saladin shook his head. "[They need reliable supply routes to replenish their forces. I'm not even talking about units and manpower – parts, supplies, food, the weakness of the Triumvirate is their strength.]"
Valentin nodded. "[Technology.]"
"[Space Marines, correct?]" One general asked, likely referring to his previous position in the Soviet military.
He nodded. "[I was. Every Space Marine is an investment of thousands of rubles. While the average Soviet infantryman doesn't have a kit costing nearly that much, there are far more of them, and Soviet soldiers are among the best in the world. Now they're mass-producing hardsuits. It's a fearsome army, and a militarily effective one, but...]"
"[But it makes every loss costly,]" Saladin finished.
"[When a certain threshold is reached,]" Nabeel al-Nairouz said, the former Egyptian defense minister interjected, who'd come to assist the effort after his retreat to Israel. "[They can withstand losses without a major burden if conflict is contained. Even Britain won't hamper them for long. However, when this threshold is reached; when full-scale war is forced, then economics of scale begin to come into play.]"
He pulled out a small notepad, one with numerous notes on it. "[The Triumvirate war machine is massive, but has been sustainable because nothing has challenged it. Every single Triumvirate nation maintains a massive military – their economies had adapted to support it. If that careful balance is disrupted?]"
"[It collapses,]" Saladin murmured, triggering similar small discussions across the room.
"[Yes,]" Nabeel smiled grimly. "[We push them to this point, and they'll be forced to take drastic measures. Conscription. Rationing. Mass labor recruitment. The Triumvirate citizens live comfortable lives – but this would strip that away from them.]"
"[Destroying their domestic support,]" Valentin concluded.
"[Depending on how well they are propagandized,]" Nabeel corrected. "[But it will be a net negative. I bring this up to make a point – that we should understand that this war will be long, and our objective should not be to make singular stands. We are going to lose many battles – but we need to slow them, draw them deeper in, until we force them to this threshold.]"
Saladin's face was grim, as he ran the calculations. "[If we pursue this plan…we will have to cede the North. Ethiopia, Somalia, Guinea, Mali…]" he trailed off. "The entirety of West Africa and the Horn. This is…it will be difficult to convince the Union of the necessity.]"
"[I am afraid that we don't have a choice, if we want to have a chance at defeating them,]" Nabeel said in a low voice. "[In a direct engagement…we will be lucky to match losses. We lack the weapons. We lack the men. We lack the training. Kozhukhov…Speaker, you can attest to this. We cannot delude ourselves at what we are facing.]"
"[Look at what the British did!]" Another general interrupted. "[We can-]"
"[They had these Guardians,]" Nabeel shot back. "[Not to mention Britain has been preparing for Soviet invasions for decades.]"
The general pointed at Valentin. "[Why do you think he is here? To stand around and do nothing?]"
"[Peace,]" Valentin lifted a hand, until they waited to hear him speak. "[Nabeel is correct – the only ones who can match the technical and tactical sophistication of the Soviet Union is the Confederation. They possess weapons, Exos, AIs, and instruments of destructions you do not. They are commanded by officers who've trained for years, with the greatest military minds alive. They possess advantages and knowledge that you don't have. I will not dispute that the war that we are facing is one we are fighting from standpoint of technological weakness.]"
His hand lowered. "[That does not mean we are helpless, or possess advantages of our own. I will be able to help you, and repel the Triumvirate invaders. However, I am one man, and my Guardians are few in number. We are across the world. South America, the Middle East, Europe, Asia – this war is global, and our resources must be used accordingly. One thing I must make clear.]'
He rested his hands on the table. "[You must not become reliant on me for victory. For every battle I help you win, there will be defeats you will have to account for. Africa is not Britain, and now they know to potentially expect us. Clovis has been preparing to fight us – we must not let arrogance cloud what must be done. The Traveler will not save us – there will be no intervention by Her hand.]"
"[But you are here,]" one man sounded confused. "[What are you, if not its intervention?]"
"[Because I am Human, and this is my war as much as yours,]" he answered. "[Change will not be given to us, a better world will not manifest merely because we wish it. It must be forged in fire, war, and Light. It must be paid by sacrifice, blood, and death. The Traveler does not give for the sake of giving – for if justice, self-determination, and equality are not worth fighting for now? Then how will we stand when something worse comes?]"
"[What could be worse?]" Someone wondered skeptically.
"[We are not alone in this universe,]" Valentin said. "[There are forces outside which come for us, ones that make the Triumvirate look small in comparison. One day, they will come, and they will face us in war. This is the war which will decide the future of our species; it is our catalyst to be able to stand against the Darkness that comes.]"
The mood around the table grew grim at that. Grim at the realization that this was only the start of what was to come. Valentin had suspected that they had hoped that he would be able to single-handedly turn the tide and win the war. Now they knew that couldn't happen – and that war would need to be fought all the same.
"[Then we had best prepare,]" Saladin said, crossing his arms. "[I will recommend an evacuation of the Horn and West Africa to Central African nations. Speaker, if you could mobilize some of your Guardians to assist in this process…it would be helpful.]"
Valentin nodded. "[I will do so.]"
"[As for the Triumvirate,]" Saladin's gaze returned to the map. "[Their likely strike will be from Egypt, through Sudan, into the Horn. Fighting in Sudan will put as at a disadvantage – so we will need to prepare along the Ethiopian border. If you want to meet the Triumvirate head-on, Speaker – that is where we will first meet them on the battlefield.]"
"[Very well,]" Valentin affirmed. "[Ready your men – and take me to the armories. I believe that I can mitigate some of the technological disparity between your men, and the Triumvirate.]"
RESISTANCE JOINT COMMAND | TEL AVIV | ISRAEL
Despite their surprise at the numerous revolutions, it was a feeling they had to get over quickly, as this was not something that the Resistance could afford to sit on.
As welcome as it was, it placed them in a rare position of being caught off-guard – at least when it came to dissident activity against the Triumvirate.
Usually, they were deeply attuned to the needs and situations of the local populations, in communication with local cells, and were the ones causing the trouble, rather than reacting to it.
Finding those who wanted to strike against the Triumvirate wasn't necessarily difficult – but it required pursuit. They had to find such people, and such people tended to be easy to locate, or they found them first.
However, that might have been why they'd missed it.
Osiris had reviewed much of the lead-up to the uprising that had swept across the Middle East, looking for revelations and clues to unveil how this could have caught them off-guard; how it could have happened without the kinds of signs they'd anticipate.
The answer, it had turned out, was deceptively simple. The people who were taking part weren't the revolutionaries or dissidents that they normally sought out.
They were just ordinary people who had had enough.
It was easy to forget that even regular people had their breaking points – and it seemed that Shaheed's execution had been the straw that broke the camel's back. He'd expected that Shaheed's sacrifice would engender some additional strife for the Triumvirate – but nothing like this. He'd certainly not anticipated it being a catalyst for the rest of the world to rise up.
Had She known this would happen?
The answer seemed rather clear.
No matter if they had expected it or not, they had to seize this moment, before it got out of control.
Arya wasn't present, as all of the British advisors and personnel assigned to the Resistance had been recalled to the Isles – though with the crushing defeat of the Soviets, he expected they would reconstitute their presence shortly. Generally assuming, of course, they weren't preparing for the counteroffensive.
As things stood now, he was in command of the small Guardian contingent Valentin had given him to support the region. Hamaza retained his authority over the Resistance, with Amjah at his side, along with some others. Prime Minister Sarasohn, Liberman, and a few other Israeli military officials were also part of the gathering to develop a cohesive response to the events.
"Mosul, Tehran, Damascus, the number of cities that have already fallen is extraordinary," Liberman said, one finger resting on each stated location on a map. "Though some more easily than others. In many places, the Indians organized a retreat, in others they fought."
"And lost," Hamaza noted.
"And lost," Liberman affirmed. "They weren't prepared. Not at all."
"Curious," Osiris noted. "They're weaker than expected."
"These aren't terrorists, they were citizens," Hamaza reminded him. "Soldiers, even Triumvirate ones, may be prepared to gun down terrorists. They're less willing to fire on women, families, and civilians marching in overwhelming numbers."
"Part of it," Liberman said slowly. "The other part is, of all people, Gala."
Sarasohn frowned at him. "What has Gala done?"
"More pertinent is what he's not doing," Liberman elaborated. "Based on his history, we either expected him to fulfill his usual role and lead the reprisal - the Mossad also indicated that there was a higher than expected chance of him fleeing rather than face New Delhi."
"And he's done neither," Sarasohn said.
"No, worse, he's been trying to take initiative and negotiate," Liberman said, his voice still holding a disbelieving tone. "The good news is that means he's likely terrified of what this could turn into, and smart enough to not crack down further. The bad news is that he is being listened to."
Osiris frowned, considering. "He had an Indian advisor who's been working with him, to try and mitigate his excesses. I wonder if this could be her influence."
"Her influence or not, it's a problem," Liberman said. "New Delhi's reaction currently is somewhat apocalyptic. Gala is not doing this on their orders, and that perception is, against all odds, legitimizing him. Some groups are talking with him, some out of opportunity, others fear, and more because they have no idea what to do next."
"Which ties into the heart of the problem." Osiris finished.
"Agreed. They need leaders," Sarasohn said, lips pursed. "Advisors. Organizers. Commanders.
The majority are not ready to fight, and will attrition when the reprisal comes. We need to get people there now, otherwise there will be opportunists and charismatic, but inexperienced people, who take control. Or worse, people are convinced by a snake like Gala."
"The Quds have the most influence in the region," Osiris looked at Amjah. "Are your contacts in the vicinity?"
"Yes, I've been receiving regular reports," Amjah nodded briskly. "The problem is that I can't give them orders without a plan – which is what we're here to do. There are people who've emerged as leaders – or problems. However, this is a scale we're not prepared for. It's one thing to manage tens of fighters – but we're talking about hundreds."
A sigh escaped his lips. "My men are good, but we don't have the manpower for this.
We're a covert force – not a military."
"That is the principal issue," Sarasohn clasped her hands behind her back, looking down at the map, before turning her attention to Hamaza. "This is a question for you, Supreme Leader – would they allow us to organize volunteers into a proper military? I understand the hesitation they would have, but this is rapidly transitioning from an insurrection to a full-scale war. The British are not here, and Israel is the only standing and experienced army to call upon."
"There are also Canadian exiles," Osiris pointed out.
"Who are currently in Britain," Liberman countered.
Hamaza didn't answer right away, before sighing. "As it stands…I fear not."
Sarasohn didn't seem surprised. "Not even if you gave your support?"
"I fear not even then," Hamaza admitted. "I have been living in exile for decades now, and while I'm respected to a certain degree, the majority of the Arabs are Sunni, while I am not. Furthermore, they would see this as proof that I am an arm of the Israeli state. Truth is less important than perception here, I am afraid.
Those who want to fight know better, but we are speaking of the ordinary Muslim who does not fully know what to make of me, or if they can trust me."
"Unfortunately…" Liberman frowned. "That may be a risk we need to take. Unless we want this revolution to be smothered in the crib, we need to mobilize, and mobilize now.
If the Muslims have issues with help from Jews, they need to get over it unless they want to die."
"I am aware but I have a better idea," Hamaza's attention turned to the other participant of the meeting, one who had said little during this exchange. "They may not fully trust me – but they would trust you."
Shaheed Al-Najar did not seem overly thrilled at the prospect, even through the projection from his Ghost, which had been hovering at the table, and allowing him to participate remotely. The projection was colored enough that were it not for a slight sheen, he might as well have been standing in person.
Osiris didn't actually know where he was right now, only that he hadn't been able to return in person. Likely preparing his men in Yemen. "They do not know me either, they only know of my reputation," Shaheed said. "I am still subordinate to you, Supreme Leader, despite my…" he indicated the Ghost 'behind' him. "Unexpected circumstances."
It was not, as the words might imply, indicating displeasure with said circumstances.
Shaheed had taken to the Light with a level of enthusiasm, and natural sophistication that Osiris had been impressed with. Both men had worked closely since he'd reawakened, and his only regret was that Shaheed did not have more time to prepare.
Still, despite his natural talent, he was far more comfortable being a small-scale military leader than anything more.
"Do I need to make it an order," Hamaza met his eyes. "They rose up because you reminded them of what had been lost – and what our future could be. This is because of your inspiration, not mine. We need a leader – and while you may not believe you are ready, I know that you are. Our people must have a voice, a leader that has been denied for too long."
Shaheed took a breath, not speaking for a few moments. Given the silence, and experience, Osiris wondered if his Ghost was communicating some words of encouragement to him. After a few more long moments, his features hardened into resolve, as he met Hamaza's eyes. "I'd been ready to die, Ayatollah. I'd never felt so serene. So at peace, back then. Duty fulfilled, at long last."
"We have martyred ourselves for too long," Hamaza said. "Death is no longer enough. We must be able to live, lead, and prosper. Our duty has changed, and each of us must rise to this call. This duty falls to you. You lit their hearts aflame. The call is yours."
"Then I must answer."
Hamaza looked at Sarasohn. "Ready your officers at all ranks. Amjah, identify those which will be able to interface best with your identified leaders. Establish tentative contacts, letting them know the Resistance is ready to support and offer guidance. Osiris?"
"Tell me where to go, and I'll support as required," Osiris confirmed.
"Which reminds me," Liberman coughed, looking at Shaheed. "Where exactly are you operating from right now? And none of your men have been responding either.
Your Ghost made this feasible, however I dislike remote calls in principle."
Osiris frowned. That was not something he'd been aware of. If they're weren't preparing in Yemen, then where were they? "They're not in Arabia?"
Liberman's eyebrow raised. "You didn't know either?"
"They're with me," Shaheed said. "All two hundred and twelve."
Liberman rubbed his forehead. "Noted. I hope you weren't planning to do something without informing us. You've just heard the situation is tense, for lack of a better word. The last thing we need is lone operations now. This is a new phase in the war."
"I'm at Ankara."
That was something that got the attention of everyone in the room. Sarasohn and Liberman exchanged an alarmed look, which Osiris frankly understood. Ankara was the most heavily fortified location in the Middle East, where the Indians and Soviets ran all of their military operations out of.
There were few places more important to their regional command and control than Eurasian Operations Command. While it was Indian-run, the Soviets had a large presence, and the Americans and Chinese also kept attaches on standby. It was notable that Ankara was not one of the cities that had seen a successful revolt.
Or any revolt at all.
"I have a request. One I'm unsure that I deserve, but one I must ask."
Liberman looked at the Prime Minister, who sighed and nodded. "Go on."
"Get me a connection to all of the Resistance, radio, to all our ground assets, visual feed to TVs, if we can afford it. Duty has called me. I intend to fully answer."
Well, it looked like this was what they were going with. Liberman snapped a finger, and an aide took note of the request, as Osiris provided his own answer. "I'll interface with Ana to have Rasputin support," he said. "How far do you want…whatever you're planning to reach?"
"Everyone. Everywhere. Let them know. Let the whole world know. The Sandman has returned.
The Sandman cometh."
UNKNOWN SOVIET SITE | SOVIET UNION
Fox had considered, after Britain's repulsion of the Soviet forces, that it might be time to leave. The game was now up, and the Triumvirate would act. Clovis would act. It would have been justifiable to enact one of his contingencies, and move things to the next phase.
Yet, he had not.
He knew what had to happen next, and there was little risk in simply watching things play out.
When he'd left his home, he'd had a certain, foreboding sense around him, one that compelled him to treasure the time he spent with his wife, and kiss her before departing for the day. Perhaps it was just a coincidence, but Fox did believe that he'd known that today was when he was going to die.
Curiously, that didn't frighten him.
The arrest, or kidnapping, was rather cordial. The KGB, with one of their Exos, surrounded him as he arrived at the TIS Headquarters, and firmly escorted him into a blacked-out van. He did not resist, and one of their agents had administered some kind of drug to him, and he'd soon blacked out.
Watcher-7 had disappeared as he'd driven up, but Fox wasn't especially concerned. Better this way, he had faith in his Ghost.
Now awake, he didn't know where he was now, or how much time had passed since. Based on the room, he could put together a general idea, even in his foggy brain struggling to awaken properly.
It was a standard Soviet interrogation room, a kind of room he'd been in many times before. Almost completely empty, harsh lights from the ceiling, and metal chairs with a metal table between them, all of which was bolted down. His hands were restrained to the armrests, as were his ankles to the chair legs. His suit had been removed, but the rest of his clothing didn't seem to be touched – except for items within removed, his wallet, phone, keys, and firearm.
Understandable.
Exactly where he was, he certainly couldn't say. The drug had ensured that he couldn't make judgements based on the time. He could have been out only an hour, or several days. Knowing Clovis, he was likely somewhere deep in Russia that was easily controlled.
If Clovis was smart, he was in one of the Siberian black sites. Though really, it didn't matter where he'd been moved; there was no way to hide it from Her – or his Ghost. He was certain, however, that Clovis didn't intend to drag this out for very long. He was many things, but he was ultimately decisive.
Extended theatre was beneath him. For all his faults, Clovis was a man of direct action; unwilling to waste time on the inevitable.
All he could do now was wait, until someone realized he was awake. He spent that time to wake up as best he could; blinking, clearing his head, and moving his tongue around to reduce the numbness. Knockout chemicals had some irritating side effects, such as his mouth being very dry. Sadly, there wasn't any water around.
He judged that roughly a half-hour passed before the cell door quietly slid open.
Inside walked Clovis Bray.
The Exo body was just as striking in this cell as it was anywhere else. A towering machine of immaculate precision, strength, and power – even more so due to the confinements of the cell. Clovis looked down at him, his eyes glowing with bright, red, malevolence. In his hand was a glass, in the other was a pitcher.
He set the glass down on the table, and poured water into it with a delicacy that belied his robotic frame, yet never taking his eyes off Fox for a second. After setting the pitcher down, the restraints around Fox's limbs snapped open. Remote-operated, slaved to Clovis it seemed.
He wouldn't deny the offer. Fox took the drink, savoring the taste of the water as he waited for Clovis to speak.
"You aren't surprised."
"Of course not," Fox answered, setting the glass down. "I'd have been more disappointed if you'd done nothing. It's poor strategy to allow enemies to roam in one's midst."
"Indeed," something resembling melancholy tinged Clovis' voice. "I did not think I would consider you an enemy, Hayden. You were a fine director. One of the best in the TIS' history. And you've thrown it away for…" he trailed off, only for a moment. "Perhaps that is what I am curious about. Why. You, who had dedicated himself to Humanity, to the Triumvirate, to just cast it aside in service to an alien."
He shook his head. "Disappointing."
Fox finished his drink, formulating a response. "There is a different between us, Clovis. I have always done what is necessary to preserve the Triumvirate. I believed – and still do – in the promise and necessity of the institution. Our species requires such things, and my role was to serve the mission - not myself."
He let some bitterness seep into his voice, some long-pent frustration. "You could have had everything you wanted. The Traveler did not care that we ruled; She is not interested in that – She is interested in if we possessed the wisdom to evolve, or fall to hubris. You could have been the one who defined Humanity forever – but your pride would not allow you to do that."
He set the glass down with a clack. "I did not want to do this, General Secretary. But everything you have done, in your reckless pursuit in challenging the divine, has fundamentally threatened the stability and future of the Triumvirate more than I ever could. The Triumvirate could have been the torchbearer of Humanity for millennia onwards – now you have ensured it will only be a memory; a footnote in the grand history of our species."
Human eyes met robotic ones. "I see my mission as acting in the best interests of mankind. The Triumvirate was this once, it is no longer. Therefore, I cannot support Humanity being led down this self-destructive path, under the vision of a man who seeks to emulate Icarus. You have begun to soar, Clovis, but when you face the full brilliance of Her radiance, you will burn."
Clovis refilled his glass. He took it again, as Clovis answered.
"Perhaps, I will burn, perhaps I will fall - but I do so knowing I did all I could to prevent the enslavement of man to the alien," Clovis finally said, no apology or regret in his voice. Only resolve; the confidence of a man convinced of his decisions.
"You misunderstand me, Director," Clovis chided. "I know full well that I cannot match the Traveler alone. I cannot succeed alone. Perhaps you believe in the benevolent intentions of this alien, yet just as you cannot afford to risk the future of Mankind for what you see as hubris, I cannot take the risk that this alien presents. The price does not matter. I will not willingly allow Humanity to slave themselves to an alien."
"And instead, slave them to your vision," Fox shook his head. "Is that better?"
"Only Man may decide our fate," Clovis said. "It has always been so. Men of history, vision, and power. Such men have shaped our history; they embody the ideal of Destiny – where they refused to be slaves to the inevitability, and forged their own way. If man is to rise, or fall, then it should be by our own hand – not by the hand of the divine."
He really did believe that. "No matter how much you try, no matter what you do," Fox warned slowly. "You will never be a god."
Clovis chuckled, appearing to be genuinely amused by the concept. "I do not need to be God, Fox. I only need to know how to fight one." He lapsed into silence, his unblinking eyes appraising the man opposite him a bit longer. "You are prepared to die."
"I am."
"And you are calm."
"I've read stories," Fox said, lacing his fingers together. "Histories, of people persecuted throughout history. I found many of the stories of those who'd accepted their deaths without fear, without worry, questionable. How could one have any peace or assurance when facing oblivion? Defiance, for sure – but peace? It was an alien concept to me."
He paused. "But I understand now. I will die, Clovis, but I do not worry about what happens next. You will fall, and Humanity will march into a radiant future, carved by swords of Light, and your monuments to power reduced to embers."
"We shall see," Clovis said. "Almost unfortunate that you will not be able to see it. I've been preparing for this conflict for a long time now. The Traveler and her Guardians may think they are winning now, that their victories have momentum. The war, Director, has only just begun – and much has been revealed to me. All I need is a little more."
He looked around. "Your Ghost is nowhere to be found, it seems."
"He knows where I am."
"Perhaps, but he cannot save you here."
Fox shrugged. "It changes nothing."
Clovis nodded once. "I see little reason to deny you a final comfort before your death. It will be quick. Consider it a reward, for your many loyal years of service." He stood, and turned to the exit. "Do not fear I will delay. It will be over soon."
He left the room, the door closing silently behind him.
Fox was left alone, as the last hours of his life approached, but he did not fear.
He was at peace.
KGB PROCESSING SITE | OMSK | SOVIET UNION
Vagner was somewhat surprised that the now-former Director of the TIS was so…passive. When they'd come to bring him to the execution room, he hadn't resisted, or honestly given any indication that this was alarming.
He certainly wasn't the first high-profile individual he'd had a hand in executing, and each of the men and women he'd put down had varied reactions – but in all his years, he hadn't seen anything like the almost tranquil calm exhibited by Fox. It was strange, and somewhat unsettling.
Well, not his concern.
Just another traitor to kill.
He'd been placed into the chair, as the drug cocktail was prepared. After restraining the subject, and conducting a brief vital check to confirm he was fine (a rather pointless procedure, considering this was an execution), he gathered the drug from the locked compartment, and inserted the syringe into it. Once the chemical was extracted, and he took a moment to make sure the dosage was correct.
The man was not extremely old, but old enough that it wouldn't take much to kill him.
There were no words exchanged – there was no need, and Vagner had little appetite for conversation. Talking to the dead was a tiring exercise. It was perhaps one reason he was considered effective at this job. Whatever sounds the captives made, their pleas, cries, or screams, was just noise to him, while he was thinking about a relaxing evening with his wife after work.
He lowered the syringe to inject the man, when he spoke.
"I'll give you a choice," Fox said, looking straight ahead. "You can do your duty, and be judged accordingly – or you can leave, and go home to live another day."
It was so unexpected that Vagner paused, looking at Fox almost incredulously. For once, he was extremely tempted to ask just what the man was talking about. His face couldn't quite hide the incredulity. He tried to see if the man was serious, and truthfully couldn't tell. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he snorted. "[No. Traitor filth.]"
Fox just smiled.
"Can't say I didn't try."
Vagner injected the drug, stepped back, and disposed of the syringe into the biohazard container. He didn't need to watch the drug take effect; he'd seen the results plenty of times before. While the man died, he could begin cleaning up, locking the cabinets, disposing of needed materials, and finishing the administrative work.
A minute later, he walked over to the corpse, and laid two fingers on his neck. No pulse. The monitors hooked up to him confirmed it. The man was dead, without question. Hadn't taken long, as expected. No unexpected complications either, which he was pleased by.
As clean as possible. Another name for the books.
The body needed to be prepared for cremation, but that fortunately was for another team. Still, he had to get the body ready for when the team came. He undid the restraints, and pulled out the IVs and wires monitoring vitals.
Almost everything was done – ah, he needed to give an update. He grabbed his tablet, and with a few taps, confirmed the death of Hayden Fox to his superiors, complete with death certificates and archival footage. The General Secretary would be pleased.
Vagner did idly wonder who would take over the TIS now. Not that he'd followed the organization closely, but Fox had been a staple of it for a long time. Would be strange with him not there anymore.
Not his problem.
He peeled off the latex gloves and began washing his hands. Something in the mirror caught his eye, but only for a moment – which was strange, because all that he could see in the mirror was the clock, which-
Which in the blink of an eye had jumped forward nearly a half-hour.
What?
His hands immediately felt different too. They were clammy, like they'd been submerged in water for minutes, even though he'd just turned the faucet on. His body felt strange too, like when he stood in place for too long-
Wait.
He realized he couldn't move.
"A pity," the voice of the dead man spoke. "But I gave you the opportunity. Thank you for confirming my death to Clovis. It'll take him longer to figure out what happened."
Vagner's mind screeched to a halt; horror and terror filling him as the very-alive Hayden Fox stepped into his field of view behind him – though he seemed different. There was an almost tangible energy around him. There was a vibrance in his skin that hadn't been there before, and his eyes were alight with satisfaction.
At his shoulder hovered a silver Ghost.
"But first, I need a new face."
Fox closed his eyes, looked slightly upwards and his hands were out, palms up as Light manifested around him; enveloping him in a golden, almost blinding sheen that projected a warm glow throughout the room. Before his eyes, Fox changed, hair turned from grey to black, facial features shifted and bones changed places. His own clothing changed to different colors and styles.
And it was not a random transformation.
Fox was transforming into him.
Vagner could only stare, terrified, heart pounding, and every limb screaming to move. He would have screamed if he could have – but he could not move, he could not scream, he could not even close his eyes.
"Strange feeling," Fox rolled his shoulders, speaking in his voice. "Odd. I'll get used to it. Now I need a corpse."
His hand lashed out, and gripped Vagner's shoulder, and the Light reappeared, this time washing over Vagner himself, as the Director began transforming him before his eyes. He felt the molecules in his body rearranging themselves, it was fortunately not an unpleasant or painful sensation – but it was one that was strong enough that he wanted to scratch what seemed to be insects moving under his skin.
His skin shifted like water. His bones rearranged themselves, breaking and reforming. His body, intimately familiar, was warped into something unrecognizable. He saw his face change into the man that had been executed. He felt himself age in moments, as every part of him had been, for all intents and purposed, transformed into something, someone else. All that remained untouched was his mind.
A mind now trapped within this alien, hostile body.
"Don't worry, this won't last long," Fox promised, as the Light faded. "I have work to do. Thank you for your service."
He snapped a finger, complete with a flash of Light, and there was a singular, overriding command that manifested in Vagner's mind, one which his body instantly complied with.
Die.
He could not deny the command, even if he had wanted to. The Voice had spoken, and his brain began shutting his body down.
He had been ordered to Die.
And so he did.
He didn't feel a thing.
THE SECOND GREAT CONQUEST
ULAANBAATAR | MONGOLIA | CHINESE COMMUNIST EMPIRE
Fang did not know how long Khojin Khongordzol had been planning for this day, but when Mongolians across the Chinese-controlled territory, and disconnected from her own secret insurrection had begun rising up, she had not wasted a moment before executing her own plans.
While others in the Resistance seemed to have been experiencing a moment of paralysis, Khojin had seemingly been waiting for this exact scenario. A single order went out, and her Mongolian guerillas struck across the country. What had followed was Chinese officers assassinated, depots blown up, logistics sabotaged, and the lines between Mongolia and China proper severed one by one.
She'd ordered Fang to deploy the Guardians he'd been allocated to several vital choke points along the border, ensure the arteries remained severed.
"Their heart here is weak," she'd explained, as they'd stood over a map to finalize the preparations. "It is already bleeding. Sever the arteries, and this dragon will wither and die. Sufficient for us to enter, and cut the jugular."
The jugular, as it turned out, was assaulting the former capital of Mongolia. She certainly didn't lack ambition – though the new Ghost by her shoulder, and the unrest in the Chinese heartland, almost certainly gave her the needed confidence. Fang liked working with her. She possessed an aura of knowledge, experience, and intensity that made her a natural leader.
And a brutal one.
She was not called the Khanum for nothing.
Ulaanbaatar was the stronghold of Chinese power in the region, and the center of their Mongolian operations. The Chinese had largely concentrated their forces in the capital, while tacitly ceding the rural regions and mountains to Khojin's guerillas. Strategically, this was the smartest decision, but it had the unfortunate consequence of being the only true center of power projection, with everywhere else being token garrisons at best.
All of which were now cut off from Beijing.
The operation against Ulaanbaatar was preceded by smaller ones; preparatory ones to secure a noose around the capital. Other smaller cities and towns isolated from Chinese power had already been taken over, with Khojin herself personally dealing with one on her way to the capital. Fang had almost felt sorry for the hapless Chinese soldiers as they'd watched the woman with a sword of Light butcher the Chinese defenders with ease, and hook the head of the commanding officer to her waist.
She'd promptly thrown that head into the city, followed by an order to surrender.
They had not surrendered.
So she had given the order, and the attack had begun, accompanied by a call for the population to rise up. They marched into the city, one thousand hardened Mongolian guerillas, numerous civilians who answered Khojin's call, and two Guardians.
Sufficient to take the city.
The Chinese were entrenched in the city, and with the civilian uprising, the fighting was street to street. They had better equipment on average, and possessed the natural advantages of defenders. What they did not possess was the higher skill of the Mongolian guerillas, the masses of people willing to fight against the occupiers, and of course, the Light he and Khojin wielded.
They'd both taken the spearheads into the city, where the Chinese were most thoroughly entrenched. The Mongolian soldiers shouted their war cries behind him as Fang advanced down the street, one arm up, forearm bared as a barrier of violet-tinged Light protected their advance. In this particular engagement they weren't being supported by allied civilians, all of whom were either hiding, or elsewhere.
Probably for the best. Fang had enough to focus on, such as keeping the barrier up.
Technically, it wasn't a barrier as traditionally understood. Rather, it was a specific application of gravity. He'd found that, after much experimentation, this was where his talent with the Light laid. He didn't know why gravity in particular called to him, but between it and his affinity for the Void, he apparently possessed some unusual talents.
This barrier as it were, was effectively a manifestation of inverted gravity, strong enough that it deflected any projectile that came at it from a certain direction. It also had the effect of accelerating anything that was fired through it from the other end. Namely, bullets fired from the soldiers behind him.
Weapons that didn't have the force or power to penetrate the superior Chinese defenses were now shattering fortifications and cutting through armor. Weapons fired at, and from behind him as the march continued, one step at a time. Each step was an effort, but the Light was sustaining, and Fang's body glowed in the white-gold aura of the Light as he bent it to his will.
"Hold!" One Mongolian soldier roared behind him. "Incoming!"
Fang heard the boom of artillery, and shriek of drones overhead. The Chinese were getting desperate if they were employing measures that risked civilian collateral. He needed to act quickly.
"On me!" He called, lifting his hands and manifesting a gravitational dome over them. The pale violet color surrounded them, pressure building around their ears – but they were protected. He gritted his teeth, as the gravitational laws tried to rebel against his attempt to slave them for his purposes. There was supposedly no stronger force in the universe than gravity, and that was something he respected far more now. It was certainly strong.
But he was stronger.
He stood firm, upright, and hands extended to the sky, until the barrage had passed. Before letting the barrier dissipate, he instructed the Mongolians to take cover along the street while he recovered. After it was done, and the Mongolian soldiers scattered, Fang leaned against a nearby wall, taking a breath to recompose himself, and calm his shaking limbs.
You alright? Shadow asked, floating by him as the Mongolians and Chinese exchanged gunfire. It was easier to communicate telepathically, since it wasn't easy to hear with the sounds of battle around them.
Yes, I just need a moment. Fang glanced around the corner. Positions?
Shadow's eye glowed blue as it projected a small hologram of the position of the Chinese forces. Nearby two dozen, with an Exo it seemed leading them, heavily fortified in the small square. Reinforcements appeared to be coming, these ones carrying heavier weapons. A problematic situation, especially for the hiding civilians.
More are coming from the sides, to attempt flanks, Shadow warned.
He was right. Not enough to kill them – but enough to cause casualties, especially when pinned down by the main defending force. He took another breath.
I see them, here's what we're going to do.
Fang called over the Mongolian officer, and instructed him to position his men to protect against the flanks, while he'd take the center. He had a plan, but it would be complicated, and he'd only done this in practice. Nonetheless, this was the most obvious move. He would not fail now.
Protect them as well as possible, and heal any wounds they have, Fang instructed Shadow. I'll handle this.
As the Mongolians repositioned, and his Ghost flew to support, Fang turned a palm upwards, and began calling upon a small manifestation of Light. A small construct that he'd created by some accident, but which had exhibited some interesting properties. Slowly, the bright light transformed into a small black ball in his hand, a sickly purple miasma developing around it. Osiris had helped him refine this particular trick, and if he did this right…
Well, the effects would be noticeable.
One he was done with, and flicked it up with a wrist until it hovered by his shoulder, and he repeated the same process two more times. Each construct was costing time, but he couldn't truly rush this. Finally, though, he had his constructs, and with a motion sent them into the square, each construct strategically positioned to cover the entire area.
He didn't need to wait long for results.
The voices of the Chinese, as well as the gunfire, began ceasing and being replaced by shouts of alarm. Fang peeked around the corner to see exactly the results he wanted – the constructs were exuding their miasma; strands of which were lashing onto everything, coating and covering every centimeter in the leeching, corrosive Light.
The constructs had one purpose, and one purpose only - to degrade and weaken anything in their vicinity. It was something which began breaking down the targets at the molecular level. It was slow, but the totality of it was enough to be impossible to ignore. Given enough time, anything in it would be reduced to a mush of atoms.
He didn't need that long.
Fang glowed brightly, drawing upon the Light, using the brief moment he could see the reality he wished for all it was worth. A reality he could see, and a reality he would make manifest. The strands of golden Light were his to weave - and so he reached out, and pulled down.
Everything in the vicinity was yanked down as the strength of gravity tripled in moments, and grew only more crushing as Fang increased the gravitational intensity. Heavier and heavier everything became, until between the corrosive effect of the constructs, and the unrelenting pressure, everything broke.
Barricades shattered, bodies imploded in on themselves, Exos were turned into scrap, the roads themselves cracked and opened up into sinkholes, and the surrounding buildings swayed as they felt the pull of the power. He did not lighten the intensity, not until every single body was reduced to paste, and fortification splinters of metal.
He released the power, and exhaled as he let the constructs dissipate.
He observed his handiwork a few moments later.
Huh. It worked.
Osiris would be interested to hear it.
Behind him, the Mongolians had successfully fought off – or killed - the Chinese encirclement attempt. They cheered behind him, walking up with smiles on their faces. One slapped him on the back, and another gave him some water which he gratefully took. Despite the power the Light gave him, it's application was sometimes more exhaustive than expected.
He was not, as it turned out, like Valentin, Osiris, or even Alexandra.
He shuddered at the idea of trying to hold back a tidal wave of that size, let alone manifesting blizzards. He'd been in awe at that display, as that was a level of power he couldn't ever emulate. Something like this, however, would be sufficient, and he was content with it being his contribution.
All the same, it might have been a good idea to refamiliarize himself with an actual weapon to augment him when the Light was exhausting, like now.
"Have a message Commander Khongordzol," the Mongolian officer said, walking up. "She has been pushing towards the city stronghold. Other teams are mopping up, and the Chinese are retreating there. She'll need our support and…" he hesitated, but continued, voice lowered. "She has indicated there is a complication."
Complication, huh. He wondered what that could be. If she was making that note, then he expected that it was not a trivial matter. He nodded sharply, rolling his shoulders and drawing upon the Light to rejuvenate him. "Then let's go. We don't have time to lose."
INVICTUS | TRIUMVIRATE COLONIAL ADMINISTRATION | NEPTUNE
The days passed, and each day was one that seemed to feel better than the last.
The problems that she felt that she once had seemed to have faded, as if they had never existed at all. Gone was the anxiety, the uncertainty, and that which made her doubt. No more was she wondering about her place here, if she deserved to be here, and what she could offer. She knew it was right. She knew she was worthy.
Though as the worries had faded, there had been…something that had replaced it. A hunger, perhaps. Not quite right, it was a need, a compulsion; the end to which she was still puzzling out.
Yet she was getting closer, she knew she was. The Song affirmed it.
The music in her head was an anthem, one which played exactly when she needed it. There was little room for questioning, self-critique, or uncertainty. Such emotions were unbecoming; they were childish, and like childish toys, they needed to be cast aside, outgrown, and pushed beyond.
Micah hummed the melody as she worked, her pen in sync to the Song which played.
She knew now she was not the only one who heard it.
That wonderful, liberating melody now enjoyed by others. It revealed itself in subtle ways, usually when she was in the streets. Many times, there would be others who would join in her tune without a moment of hesitation. It would be people weaving in and out of crowds, as if subconsciously connected, yet doing so to the beat of the music. It was an atmosphere of new, quiet confidence, joy, and security they enjoyed.
It was the small effigies she now saw were commonplace, many times left on windowsills, street corners, or desks. Little statues hewn from stone or carved from wood, in the image of the statue that had brought the Song to them. She'd even noticed many of her teachers had ones resting on their desks, and their classes had a new energy as a result.
Sometimes they even all sang together, before departing for the day, with her leading the chorus.
She was happy.
Not just for herself.
For everyone.
Everyone should hear it.
Everyone should know it.
So they too could become better.
Her lessons, ones which had once caused her to cry out of sheer frustration, were now an almost simple matter. Yes, she still had to work, but now she felt she could comprehend so much easier. Maybe it was where she worked. She'd not carved her own effigy. Not when she could reside near the real thing. Near the statue. Always near the statue.
It was comforting.
She liked how it sang to her.
As if giving her a private concert.
She sighed contentedly, writing as one finger tapped one rhythm, while she hummed another. She hadn't noticed that the time had passed, four hours now, and she moved from one subject to the next without missing a beat. Noticing the time, she wondered if she should take a break.
The thing was, she didn't feel like she needed a break.
She admittedly retained some doubts, as she'd noticed a few potentially concerning things recently. When he looked in the mirror, she could swear that she was thinner now. Not the attractive kind of thin, the kind of thin that bordered on unhealthy, to where when she took off her shirt, she could see the outline of ribs. Her parents had worriedly asked her if she was doing alright, if she was eating enough. Despite her doubts, she pushed them aside, and answered that she was. She wasn't hungry.
She didn't get hungry much anymore. A small snack in the morning seemed to be all she needed. Maybe not even that.
They asked if she got enough sleep. She told them yes, though she found she was sleeping less and less. So difficult to close her eyes and drift off, when she just wanted to listen to the melody continue. And it wasn't even as though she was tired! Every time she felt just a little bit exhausted, she would just hum the song, and that malaise would just fade away.
Still, it didn't do good to have people worried. She made sure she was quiet when she woke up early in the morning, and started to wear clothes that obscured her thinness a bit better. The Song had sounded triumphant when she'd come to that conclusion, so she figured those were both good decisions.
There was a knock at her door. The Song went into a lull. "Come in?"
The door to her room opened, and Hector walked in. He looked tired, with bags under his eyes, and hair just a bit frazzled. She'd noticed before, and had thought of asking what was wrong, but had always felt it best to let it go. If something was wrong, he'd just tell her, right? "Hey dad," she turned, closing her book. "What's up?"
"Just coming in to see you," he smiled faintly. "Not hungry?"
She shook her head. "Well, that's alright," he said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Hey, I'm…going to be leaving for a little bit. Going back to Earth for a bit to see the family."
She perked up, surprised, and the music was actually disrupted for once. Worry suddenly overcame her, and this time she did ask. He wouldn't leave unexpectedly like this. "Is everything ok?"
"Yes, work is going fine, it's nothing bad," he assured her, pointedly not immediately answering the question. "Just…not been feeling myself the past few weeks. Think it would do me some good to spend time elsewhere. I guess I miss Earth." He smiled faintly. "Who would have guessed?"
Something about that seemed wrong. He loved the idea of exploring and getting away from Earth. "Papa know?"
"Yes, I told him earlier," he said, before pausing, then pressing onward. "I actually wondered if we could all take a trip elsewhere, but he had work. Doesn't want to leave, thinks he's on the edge of a breakthrough." He shrugged his shoulders. "Can't blame him."
His tone definitely sounded that he definitely blamed him.
"Yeah," she agreed. "Well…"
"Micah…" he interrupted, after taking a breath. "You know, you could come with me. You've been working very hard – I had one of your professors ask if everything was alright, with how fast you're going ahead of everything." He moved a bit closer to her. "What do you say we both take a trip back home? Just us." A bright smile crossed his face. "I can take you to the Grand Canyon."
Her eyes lit up at that. The Grand Canyon was her favorite national park, and all around vacation place to visit. She loved it, she had since she was young, and the thought of going home for a bit did sound appealing. After all, hadn't she earned a break for a bit. Surely he could clear it with her teachers. She opened her mouth to say 'yes' – before the Anthem sounded.
You cannot leave.
A wave of comprehension washed over her. Yes, that was right. She couldn't leave. Not when she was so close. She needed to finish. Finish. Finish. Her Father couldn't take her away now, not when she was so close. Not when she had earned her place in this melody; she couldn't jeopardize it all now.
"I'd love to," she finally said, words finding their way to her tongue. "But…I'm so close to finishing things here. Once I finish classes, then we should all go. You, me, Papa. You should enjoy your time with Grandma, ok?"
At that, for a moment, he looked sad, a hope in his eyes which was swiftly dashed, before he quickly covered it; covered it fast enough that she wondered if she'd saw it all. It made her wonder, but for a moment, before the Song assured her that it wasn't anything at all. "Alright," he said quietly. "That a promise?"
"A promise," she said, and hugged him. He squeezed her tight, looking down at her.
"I'm proud of you, Micah," he said, eyes filled with a soft pride. "I love you. Don't ever forget that, would you?"
"I love you too, Dad," she answered, smiling and happy as the music hummed. "Take a picture of the Canyon for me."
"I'll do that," he ruffled her hair, and went to the door, then paused as if remembering something. "You using a new eyeliner?"
What?
A finger went near her eyes, and made contact with a greasy fluid, which she looked down at. It was black, like paint, though with a deepness to it that shouldn't be there. "Oh, yeah. Wanted to try it. Don't think its for me."
"Well, wash your face," he chuckled. "Or rather, wash it a bit better next time. You missed a spot."
He closed the door, and left her alone. She quickly went to the bathroom, and picked up the hidden towel stained black, and dabbed her eye. She felt she should have been more concerned about the black fluid that had inexplicably begun, leaking from various orifices. Her eyes, ears, and nose in particular.
At the same time…
She hummed, she felt better now.
Wasn't anything to worry about. She didn't feel ill. Besides, she'd seen the same thing on other people. She'd even pointed out to Papa that some had leaked out of his ear. Nothing to worry about, likely just some side effect of being on Neptune.
Though she wondered why the Triumvirate hadn't given any warning about such side effects.
The music swelled, an anthem of direction and command. Yes, yes, there were other things to get back to. Not worth dwelling on this topic. When she was back in her chair, pen in hand, papers in front of her, and books opened, she returned to her work, her voice her guide, her pen the instrument, and together a small, private symphony was woven.
All in the service of majesty. She was going to change the world.
The day of the crescendo was near.
And when it sounded, she knew she would see something majestic.
Majestic.
THE SECOND GREAT CONQUEST
ULAANBAATAR | MONGOLIA | CHINESE COMMUNIST EMPIRE
At this point in the battle, most of the Chinese soldiers had been routed. Either dead in the streets, rounded up for processing (or execution), or fleeing, there were few who remaining fighting.
Mongolians who'd joined the battle were now being better organized and armed by Khojin's soldiers, primarily with weapons stripped from dead Chinese soldiers or raided from armories. Fang heard the sounds of fighting were still in the distance, they were rarer – but for the center of the city.
He was approaching the towering compound, just in time to witness Khojin also arrive.
Or rather, he first witnesses a half-dozen Chinese soldiers running down the street, to the compound. Terror was clear in their movements and expressions, as the leading one yelled frantically for his men to follow.
Behind them was the Khanam.
It became easy to understand why they were running.
The woman's stature may have been short, but outfitted in a gleaming hardsuit, taking inspiration from the Khanate armors of old, she cut a striking figure. A large shotgun was strapped to her back, along with several other weapons. On her own, that would have been intimidating enough, were it not for the fact that she shone with golden-white power; power which seemed to impose a mirage over her armor, mirroring it as if an extra layer of protection.
Perhaps it was, he wouldn't have been surprised.
She was luminous and glorious, with eyes that shone like golden stars, radiant in their blinding intensity. She held no weapons, though Fang noted that the gauntlets were colored red, with a slight wetness to them. A frightening expression was on her face; an expression of a hunter cornering their prey.
Khojin leapt into the air, twisting and landing with a thunderclap in front of the fleeing soldiers, one of whom wasn't fast enough to move out of the way. Her fist shot out with a flash, slamming into his head. Plastic, flesh, and bone shattered before her augmented punch, and his head exploded in a red mist.
Her opposite hand raised as a sword of Light manifested in it, which she quickly employed, slashing two more of the soldiers to pieces, the pure Light cutting through their useless armor, leaving dismembered bodies behind. The remaining soldiers attempted to fight her, but the bullets merely bounced off her.
With a flourish, the sword dissipated, and the shotgun was in her hands, which she used to blast another. The last soldier tried again to scramble away, but Khojin's eyes simply glowed bright, intensifying into beams of light that cut the fleeing soldier in two.
The immediate threats, such as they were, disposed, she turned to him, her radiant eyes faded as she inclined her head. "Sov."
He inclined his head in return. "Khanum."
She closed her eyes, letting some of the power fade. The golden mirage over her armor faded, and her aura similarly dimmed "We have something interesting ahead." She pointed to where the last Chinese stronghold was, the city square that housed the city hall, and subsequently, the center of Chinese control.
It was a city center in name only. Even before they'd arrived, it had been heavily restricted, complete with checkpoints, gates, guards, and fortifications. Since the attack, they'd moved into full defensive formation. Fang could immediately tell the Chinese were dug in, and heavily fortified. He expected every possible entrance had been taken care of.
They had no way out, but they clearly intended to make it as costly as possible.
Though there was something…
He drew upon the Light, working to let it give him a glimpse of the infinite possibilities, which he succeeded at for a few seconds. Only a little amount of time, but enough for him to confirm his suspicion, derived from his strange observation.
"The Light doesn't touch it." He said slowly, more puzzled than anything else. He hadn't known that was actually possible.
"Not exactly. Rather, reality is frozen," Khojin propositioned, cleaning off her gauntlets with a brief scouring of Light. "At least, that is what I assume. The Triumvirate's studies into paracausality yielded some fruit. I would have been surprised if projects into preventing the casual manipulation of it weren't being conducted."
"And they have one such device that does this," Fang finished. "Which means there are probably more."
"Probably," Khojin agreed, intently focused on the compound. "I'm surprised they haven't been employed before now."
"They likely wanted to keep it as a trump card as long as possible," Fang frowned. "That is going to be a problem."
"Somewhat, but I suspect there are vulnerabilities. Outside of that, we will simply need to employ our existing forces smartly," she said. "We've won this battle, but will need to be careful so this does not become too costly. No matter."
A thought suddenly came to Fang's mind. An idea that this new technology might not have taken into account. He looked at Khojin. "Belay that. Get your people ready, but hold back. I might have an alternative."
She cocked her head at him, likely wondering at his proposal, though quickly ascertained it. There were only so many possibilities. She nodded. "A good test. Better to get used to it now, than when it truly matters." She paused, returning to look at the compound. "Presuming it works."
"For sure," Fang took a breath. "You might want to advise your people to stay back until I'm done."
"Very well," Khojin stepped back, waving over one of her officers. "Good luck, Sov. We will be ready."
It was as much encouragement as he could ask for, and while Khojin organized the Mongolians arriving, Fang began walking towards the compound.
"How many are there?" He asked Shadow.
The Ghost blinked out of sight for a few seconds before returning. "I cannot determine for sure with the Light being suppressed – or frozen - but this is what I saw." His fins spun, and a projection showed…well, a lot of defenders, complete with vehicles, machine guns, more than enough firepower to kill any non-Lightbearer.
Shadow bobbed in front of him, slight concern in his electronic voice. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Fang considered for a moment, then steeled himself. He confessed to some nervousness – but that could not come before the mission. It could not come before the war. "I will need to use it like this at some point. Khojin is correct – better now, when the stakes are low."
Shadow's voice held a tinge of worry, but bobbed in the air in a nod. "Then be safe, Fang. I cannot reach you when you touch the Void."
"I know," he said quietly. "I'll make it quick."
He had a feeling that the Triumvirate scientists had not known the existence of something like the Void. It was not the paracausality they had come to expect. It was, in fact, nothing at all.
He reached deep for the power again, but this time it was not the Light he drew upon, but the depths beyond it. The cold emptiness filled him, manifesting into blackness emerging and spreading from his heart across his entire body. As the Void engulfed him, he became everything, and nothing at once. His corporeal form became something that he maintained only through sheer willpower.
He stepped forward, leaving pools of blackness in his wake, not like a liquid, but similar to a heatless fire; a tear in the world, an opening that should have remained closed. The Chinese had noticed him now, and were moving to their positions. Soldiers opened fire, but it was as effective as shooting a black hole. Every bullet, every projectile, was swallowed up into the emptiness he had become.
He stopped, a dozen meters before the street fortification.
He spread his arms horizontally, and let the Void fall from his body, tears separating from his form and falling down. Blackness seeped from his form as if cut from his veins, pooling at his feet. When a sufficient amount had pooled under his feet, he began raising it behind him. It was a surprisingly easy process, for it was a part of him. It was as though he was simply lifting his hand. The blackness was only the Void.
He was simply the consciousness commanding it.
A wave of blackness began to rise behind him, beautiful and terrifying in its emptiness. With a thought, he sent it forward. The wave left behind a clean trail of the nothingness, and it similarly crashed into the Chinese defenders, undeterred by whatever mechanism they were employing.
It seemed like it did not protect them from the Void.
Some of the soldiers became coated in the blackness, and frantically tried to scrub or wash it off, only resulting in it spreading further over them like a disease. It would consume them soon. With a path to the center of the fortification laid, Fang had his vector to act. With a hand, he plunged one hand into his chest, drawing deeper into the Void, as his connection strengthened, and yanked out with a roar.
Within the fortification, a massive explosion seemed to sound, as a large ball composed of the blackness erupted, further spreading the pathways to the Void throughout the compound. Fang melted into the pool he was standing like liquid, and reformed in the center of the chaos, as he then called to the souls of the Void.
His knowledge of that particular aspect was limited, for he'd not spent much time doing this – but he knew that the souls held in the Nothing were aimless, shattered remains of those who had long since been lost.
Yet they retained some memories of what they were.
And they responded to the commands of another.
Come.
Drag them to the Nothing, as you are.
Chaos and terror had already gripped those present, as the soldiers, those who weren't trying to flee, were shooting at him, their bullets doing nothing. It only amplified as the first soldier standing in a puddle of the blackness was suddenly pulled down before he could even scream. The blackness began rippling as the souls answered his call.
Appendages, claws, arms, hands, and tentacles emerged, reaching for their prey. They hooked and grabbed the soldiers through pools and black smears on the walls, further spreading the blackness. One by one, Fang witness the Chinese soldiers be dragged into the Void. Some tried to flee, but it was a futile effort.
Fang walked through the chaos, an observer and commander to the terror unleashed. He saw one soldier trying to run away, and ran past a wall where the blackness provided a window. Fang plunged one hand into a nearby pool, grabbed the soldier, and despite her struggle, pulled her into the Nothing.
Then, finally, it went quiet.
He relaxed his hold on the summoned souls.
Rest now. Return.
The souls returned to their erratic state of nothingness, as he stood in the compound covered by the Void. There was a beautiful comfort in it, and one that he felt the temptation to succumb to, even now. Yet he knew that he could not do so, he could not let it consume him, as it did others.
With his focus as iron, he crossed his arms, closed his fists, and pulled everything back. The blackness that coated everything began seeping to him, as if he was a center of gravity in his own right, a torch surrounded by black flames. It seeped back into him, turning his form into the deepest blackness, as he reconstituted himself as Fang Sov.
Human. Guardian.
It was cold.
He did not let his focus waver until the Void was contained within, and the gate he had breached to summon it closed. He let go of the Void, pulling himself away from its call.
He fell to the ground once he did so, the sensations of feeling and life returning to him. The Light within him was still there, but very weakened; distant. The Void's call he still felt, the cold nothingness still gripping him. Exhaustion gripped him, true exhaustion that he'd not felt for a very long time.
He shivered, as Shadow floated down to him, already summoning warm Light to ease his transition back to one alive. "I'm ok," he said, getting to his feet. "I'm ok."
Khojin approached, together with a number of her soldiers. There was something new in her expression, a disconcertion that hadn't been there before. Likely because of what she'd witnessed. "Looks like it worked," she said after a moment, looking around. "Good job."
"Thanks."
"We can take it from here, and I think you need rest," she said, her voice losing its commanding edge for a moment.
That he did, and it was rest he earned. He felt it would be a bit before he was back to normal, and the call of the Void fully faded.
THE BATTLE OF ETHIOPIA
BORDER OF ETHIOPIA | ETHIOPIA
The forward scouts had returned, and the news was bad.
Expected, but bad.
Saladin exhaled.
They'd had nearly a full week to prepare. Enough time to surge men and equipment to the border, in conjunction with preparations taking place across the continent. They'd dug in, established supply lines, planted mortar lines, and taken every feasible step to engineer a scenario where victory against them was impossible.
The positioning was near-perfect. A large open field of grass and weeds that comprised the No Man's Land, with their own positions bordering a heavy forest, complete with canopies and watchtowers. Hills also provided height advantages for positioning artillery, and a large stream cut through the open area, which would slow down any army trying to cross it.
The Triumvirate couldn't avoid them without delaying an attack by days or weeks, which would given them time to reposition. Furthermore the Triumvirate forces were coming out of a march through the desert, which would have already degraded their equipment. They wouldn't be able to rely on air support because of anti-air weaponry defenses and electronic warfare.
They could only go through the route expertly prepared to be a trap.
Ever since he'd reached the rank high enough to make such decisions, Saladin had been planning for the day the Triumvirate would invade. The contingencies he'd originally drafted were official, but not much thought was truthfully given to them, as it had seemed that the Triumvirate's imperial conquests had stopped.
Egypt had changed that.
Since that day, his plans had been pulled out, refined, and expanded where appropriate. Officially, only Ethiopia had access to these plans, as they were critical defense secrets. Unofficially, Saladin and allies across the continent had been sure that other African nations also had an outline to tailor to their own nations.
And yet, it wouldn't be enough.
He'd read the daily assessments of the approaching Soviet army. The numbers seemed to grow each time. A thousand, then two, then five. First mostly infantry-heavy, now there were drones, Exos, and armor integrated into it.
He saw the raw numbers, the images collected, and the technology being fielded, and knew that they just didn't have enough.
He knew as much about the Triumvirate military technology as much as someone who wasn't part of them could. Between white papers, conferences, military tech journals, there was a surprising amount of information that could be gleamed just from the private sector. Just what was public painted a bleak picture about what they would be facing.
The Ethiopian army, and the wider United African Army, was multiple generations behind in nearly every single aspect of technological warfare. This had only exacerbated with the arrival of the alien, whose knowledge had improved their military tech by several factors.
The contingencies and plans he'd designed had been for a superior opponent. This went beyond that already frightening definition. This was closer in technical terms to Europeans against Native Americans. A technological gulf so vast that the inherent advantages and regional knowledge didn't matter, as technology and manpower would be enough to overcome it.
Thousands of soldiers were approaching, between seven and ten thousand were the numbers; the best of the Soviet Union. Heavy artillery pieces with guided shells. Drones with loitering munitions. Tanks specifically attuned for desert and jungle warfare. Exos. The list continued.
Perhaps the technology in play raised the cost for each loss, but while that meeting had given him a much-needed boost of confidence – as he saw what was really approaching, he became less sure of their chances.
As much as he hated to admit it, their only hope was the Guardian.
Valentin had been helpful during the preparations, especially as they'd initially entrenched themselves. After a single day, he had used his Light power to reshape the environment to best suit their needs. Days he'd thought would need to be dedicated to preparation were instead dedicated to reinforcing supply lines. It was a boon of uncountable worth.
And it wasn't going to be enough.
The first rays of sun were peeking over the horizon now. The morning was rather tranquil, perhaps a harbinger of the chaos and conflict to come. He knew the dam would break shortly, as only hours earlier, the scouts had come with an urgent message.
"[They're coming.]"
They were on war footing now.
He'd ordered everyone to duty stations. What artillery and mortars they had were now manned, marksmen were camouflaged and positioned across and behind their front lines, and thousands of his own soldiers were in trenches, behind fortifications, or held in reserve to maintain a stable front line. What few armor pieces they had were also ready.
This was it. This battle would set the tone for the entire conflict to come.
If today he would die, at least he knew there could be no higher cause to die for.
He marched across the front line while soldiers ran around him to their positions. Gunfire began sounding as the first Soviet soldiers were spotted, and the first drones flew overhead. MANPADS were launched in response, explosions across No Man's Land erupted, and the battle began in earnest.
There was only one thing he needed to check before he fully committed his attention to the battle. His eyes swept over the area, looking for the Guardian, who was-
Meditating?
Unbothered by the sounds of warfare, and in far too exposed a position for Saladin to be comfortable with, he rested on his knees, hands placed atop them, breathing steadily. It was strangely serene, as a faint golden aura surrounded around him. Saladin didn't have time to question it – he had to trust the Guardian knew what he was doing.
And that he would help them.
The Soviet forces were fully here now. Soldiers wearing hardsuits stained with sand, mud, and grime, they marched forward despite their inferior positioning, able to shrug off far too much of the small arms fire as engineers established their own fortifications. MARAUDER-class Exos and Soviet Rocketeers planted themselves in the dirt, and began unleashing missile barrages against the front lines.
Small tanks moved in behind the Soviet lines, aiming for the sniper nests and largest barricades. There were so many of them. The shriek of drones overhead became a constant sound, usually followed by the sounds of anti-air weaponry firing in response. Shouts, screams, and orders were heard constantly as the Soviet army began their spearhead.
The first hours passed, and morning turned to day.
The Soviets began moving their initial front lines forward. Saladin had reviewed the results of Soviet war games from previous years, through official and unofficial sources. He'd heard of the Soviet proficiency; their ability to run a war machine more sophisticated than the Americans, but it was one thing to read, and another to see.
It was efficient, methodical, and relentless. The Soviets knew they had the advantage, and were not going to surrender that advantage. As they advanced across No Man's land, it permitted their tanks to move into better positions, their artillery to become more accurate as Soviet laser targeting from spotters and drones moved closer, and still more Soviets poured to fill a widening front line.
The African forces had managed to cause some damage – but their own artillery was weaker, and their firearms of limited effectiveness against Soviet hardsuits. For every soldier they killed, another immediately took their place. Every time a drone, Soviet Rocketeer, or tank destroyed a fortification or artillery piece, that was something they had no replacement for.
More hours dragged by. The afternoon stretched on, as the sun beat down.
A quarter of his men were now casualties; the majority of whom were dead, or soon to be dead. They'd expended nearly half of their anti-air munitions, and had burned through a third of their artillery munitions. Firearm ammunition remained sustainable, but he knew that wasn't going to be enough.
What heavy weapons and explosives they retained were being saved until the Soviets moved closer, only employed by specialist units, who'd managed to take out a respectable number of Soviet tanks, armor, and artillery pieces. They'd taken down a fair amount of drones, though critical infantry were a different story. Even with marksmen fully concentrating on the Soviet engineers, they'd only been able to kill a relatively small number.
Artillery had helped slow the advance. The closer the Soviets got, the easier it was to calibrate – but it wasn't doing enough. While their marksmen had been struggling, the Soviet's own marksmen, despite their inferior position, were succeeding in dueling his men to a standstill, and forcing them to hold their fire. A set of circumstances that benefitted the Soviets.
All of this while the Soviets advanced.
Twilight fell.
Bodies were piled up across the front lines. African soldiers lay splayed along the ground, or buried under collapsed trenches. They'd stopped being able to move the corpses out of the front line because there were too many, and all reinforcements replacing them had to immediately begin firing, otherwise they'd give the Soviets another opening to advance. Even the Soviet lines had experienced higher casualties, enough where Saladin took some solace in the fact that there would be some cost to the Soviet offensive.
Not enough of one, not fast enough.
Their own losses were becoming exponential.
They were going to lose, and it wasn't going to be a pyrrhic victory for the Soviets. It wasn't even going to be a truly costly one.
They were about to be overrun.
Blood, sweat, and mud covering his uniform, and his arm bandaged from a stray bullet wound, Saladin rushed across the lines, trying to do his own part to plug gaps, save the wounded, and give the men something to keep fighting with. Their lines remained intact, and he knew that they would fight to the last man.
No retreat. No surrender.
They had no choice.
As night fell, he noticed something that hadn't been apparent before; something that he'd failed to notice manifesting in the sky.
There was a shimmer in the air, one that stretched as far as he could see, like white veins cutting through the air which occasionally pulsed. It wove together like a web, a transparent net that you could still see the stars through. Like a light blanket over their little piece of Earth, though he could not begin to wonder what it meant.
Throughout the battle, Valentin had remained in place, unmoving, despite begin surrounded by pits caused by mortars and shells. Not a single one had touched him. If Valentin was going to do something, he needed to do it now.
Yet it seemed this would not happen. Whatever Valentin was doing, it was not ready yet.
Night fell.
Normally, it would result in a lull in the fighting, but the Soviets clearly saw no reason to do this. Night was not a hinderance to them. Their gear could operate in the dark, while his simply could not. His men shot into the night based on shapes and spotlights, while the Soviets aimed with night-vision weapons and drones.
They fought all the same.
They fought until half of his men were dead.
Then three quarters.
They fought until all of their ammunition was expended. They couldn't afford to hold onto it, because if it wasn't used now, then it never would be. They fought until they only had their rifles left.
And as they fought and died, the sky glowed with the white-gold Light.
With nothing significant stopping the Soviets, their advances were even faster and they crossed the river. Saladin fought all the same. With every rifle that ran out of ammunition, he picked up another one and resumed firing as the Soviet horde approached. The hail of bullets intensified against them, and another bullet struck him; pain which he pushed through.
An artillery shell impacted near him, and shrapnel ripped into his left side, while blowing his leg off. One of the last medics alive rushed to him, but Saladin knew that it was too late and waved the man away.
It was just in time too, as the shelling intensified and another landed almost on top of him. So close it was that the shock turned his vision blurry, and set his ears ringing. He tasted blood, and found he couldn't move his body. As he laid on his back, parts of him spread across the grass, he stared at the white-veined sky.
He found it oddly comforting. Even welcoming
He'd wondered what death would feel like. He didn't expect it to be peaceful. There was no fear, only a resignation, and regret that it hadn't been enough. Perhaps he was at peace because he'd given everything he had to stop the Triumvirate.
No one could say he hadn't tried.
He closed his eyes, and Field Marshal Saladin Azmera died.
EURASIAN OPERATIONS COMMAND | ANKARA | REPUBLIC OF INDIAN TERRITORIES
High alert was a status that he was growing rather weary of. They had maintained this readiness stance since the first riots across the Middle East, and without much action in the days since, he couldn't deny that it was starting to have an effect on himself and the men stationed at the base.
Eurasian Operations Commander Sunder Vadekar rubbed his eyes. A tall, bulky man with a square and shaved head, and a seemingly permanent frown on his face, he was a naturally intimidating figure, though was often believed to be an idiot because of it. A fact that he'd been able to use to his own ends sometimes, but far too often it led to idiots treating him like one of their own.
It was exhausting, and now it was getting in the way of his actual job. He was growing more and more convinced that matters needed to be taken into his own hands, if for no other reason than no one else was acting. His subordinates were asking him for direction every few hours. The Soviets were demanding action. The Americans and Chinese were demanding a plan of any kind. And New Delhi was, as usual, being completely, utterly, useless.
'Leave it to Gala,' they had effectively said, because of course it was Gala who was the brains behind the Indian operations in the region, as if he was some kind of visionary, competent genius, and not a greedy, crude, and violent psychopath. Traits which, he begrudgingly admitted, were likely appealing to New Delhi.
Sunder had heard quite a bit about the famed butcher of Arabia, and he had been only somewhat surprised to learn that the man was possessed of some guile, though that only meant he possessed a brain. That, in conjunction with his tendencies, made him more problematic, not less. Given his current actions – ones taken on his own initiative – he was uncertain if the man had gone soft, or if he'd built a fake legend around himself specifically to appeal to the hardliners in new Delhi.
Given his own interactions with the man, he was inclined to believe the latter.
He sipped his coffee, and began working his way through the stack of files on his desk.
Each of them were the reports for the day, from Indian and Soviet sources, along with daily American and Chinese reports that covered topics beyond the region. Today though, he started with his immediate region of responsibility.
Iraq. Syria. Iran. Afghanistan. All areas that continued to experience significant unrest, with major city centers fallen to rebel hands, or were actively dealing with civilian insurgencies. Gala's brilliant plan, it seemed, was to talk with them. Gala insisted that the plan was to just buy time, mollify the rebels, while preparing counteroperations - but Sunder knew very well that wasn't going to work.
And Gala certainly knew it too.
Every day they delayed acting, was another day these groups became more organized, more dangerous, and more difficult to dislodge. The singular salvageable aspect of this entire fiasco was the fact that, by some blessing of Shiva, the Resistance wasn't actually behind this. It was legitimately, spontaneous grassroots uprising.
One triggered by the General Secretary brilliantly deciding to execute a defenseless Arab on live television. He, and every single individual who had some inkling of the region had watched in sheer disbelief when that had happened. The only thing that Clovis could have done to make the entire situation worse would have been to pour pig blood on the corpse and bury it in pork.
Fucking moron.
He pushed the thoughts of the General Secretary aside, as he considered the inevitable problem of the Resistance. Their lack of action wouldn't last, which was generously assuming the Grand Ayatollah's tentacles weren't already embedding themselves in these insurgencies, especially in Tehran. The clock was ticking down to a worse disaster, and if New Delhi wasn't going to cooperate, then he needed to do what was necessary to restore order.
At least the Soviets, perhaps realizing this entire fiasco was their fault, had made it clear they were ready and eager to help. Given their historical experience with putting down Muslim revolts, he was ready to accept it if New Delhi was going to stonewall him.
Politics be damned, he, the men, and his allies were at the end of their rope. Not to mention, he outranked Gala, and the man had done more than enough to warrant a dismissal, or at least, suspension.
His office phone rang, which he picked up. "[Vadekar here.]"
"[Commander, we have a situation that demands attention,]" Operations Coordinator Jatayu, the man who kept much of the place running, said. If he was saying it, then it did demand his attention. Jatayu didn't waste his time on minor concerns. "[I request you come to Operations Command. Ivan's on his way as well.]"
Good, he'd already called his Soviet counterpart as well. Once more he was glad for his subordinate's initiative. "[I'm on my way.]"
He hung up the phone, quickly stacked his files so they would be ready for his return, and after grabbing his beret, made his way to the heart of the base.
OPERATION: FALL IMPERATOR
BORDER OF ETHIOPIA | ETHIOPIA
Soviet Marksman Aleksandra Lyutova did not think that she'd ever been part of an offensive as successful as this one.
Granted, said number of offensives were few in number, but she'd participated in many trainings, simulations, and war games over her military career, enough that she believed she possessed a respectable understanding of warfare. Something that she distinctly remembered, and which had been drilled into them over and over was 'Prepare for things to go wrong'.
No plan survived contact with the enemy, but plans could be flexible.
However, the plan had gone shockingly well, so well, she'd waited for the other shoe to drop, and the Africans to reveal their master trap. They'd known they were walking into the home of the Ethiopians, and knew they held some advantages. They were dug in, prepared, and ready to fight.
Conventionally, they held every possible advantage. Of course, the Triumvirate was far beyond convention now, and what would have once bogged down an army barely slowed them. Convention could not defeat them, so they'd expected there would be something more.
They'd prepared for a trap. They'd prepared to adjust their plans in the event of something unexpected happening. Britain was fresh in the minds of everyone, and the commanding officers were far more cautious in their objectives and battle plans.
Yet the offensive had been almost flawless in execution.
The Africans just didn't have enough. They didn't have the weapons, the numbers, or the technology to stop them. Methodically, they advanced; their weapons cutting down the defenders as Africa was claimed for the Triumvirate. They could not be stopped, not with the insufficient weapons being used. Spirit was no substitute for steel.
So why, the longer they'd fought, did the feeling of dread grow?
Why did gooseflesh prick her skin when she looked up into the unnaturally bright sky, one that reminded her of the Northern Lights? In any other circumstance, the white-gold nebulae in the night would have been beautiful, but she couldn't shake the feeling that it was an omen, one which spelled something terrible.
It wasn't just her either.
Her friends, comrades, and even officers had quietly expressed uncertainty of the thing in the sky. The shining, translucent web which only seemed to grow brighter as the fighting progressed. The day turned to night and then back to morning again. Their casualties had been more than they'd wanted, but far within acceptable parameters.
In contrast, the Africans were almost decimated.
Yet she'd not done much in this battle. Something had compelled her to stay her hand many times, even though she'd had clear shots many times. Instead, she simply observed, supported, and reported when appropriate. It felt as though there was a gaze on her, something judgemental that was carefully watching her actions.
Something that would determine her fate.
Aleksandra shivered.
She wondered if this was what religious people felt; this feeling of being watched and judged. She'd been content to dismiss such nonsense as superstitious, but underneath the shimmering sky, knowing that there were those who wielded divine powers, she wondered if those people had been more right than she'd assumed.
She wondered how many others were feeling the same way right now.
They were winning. They had won.
So why did it feel like they were digging their own graves?
Once more she peered through her rifle as the Soviet units began movements to make the final charge, close the noose, and finish the offensive. Then…
She frowned, looked through the scope again, and cold settled over her; a creeping thing that amplified the dread. There was someone walking beyond the African lines, into No Man's Land. Someone not dressed even remotely like any of the African soldiers. It was a figure of bright white, wearing smooth robe-like attire. A hood covered his head, and on his face was an eyeless mask.
She pressed her earpiece. "[Unknown figure approaching.]"
"[Spotted. All units, hold fire.]" Came the answer from her superior. She imagined that similar orders were being conveyed to the rest of the Soviet force.
For the first time in hours, silence fell upon the battlefield. Aleksandra briefly looked at the African lines, and saw them mostly take advantage of the lull to shore up defenses, treat their wounded, and pull their casualties out. It didn't look like they'd try anything else, but it seemed clear they weren't retreating.
However, the figure commanded all the attention.
There was something unnaturally bright about him - at least she assumed it was a man. It was as if he was a conduit of light. Or perhaps just a trick of the morning sun. She didn't know, and was becoming more disconcerted the longer the figure stood there, hands clasped together in front of them. Stories of the figures of power she'd heard appeared in her mind.
She swallowed, the weapon feeling useless in her hands.
He spoke.
"[You have marched here under the banner of subjugation, by the orders of the tyrants,]" Aleksandra dropped her weapon, as did the others around her, instead putting their hands to their ears as the voice spoke. A voice that she did not just hear, but which was in her head. It was one of sheer power, spoken in fluent Russian. Nor was it just that one voice, but as if it were leading a concert of a hundred voices.
"[You march for the dying empires, whose leaders send you to execute their will, and fulfill their ambitions. They who seek to defy Her will. They who would challenge the benevolence offered to Humanity.]" One hand lifted, a finger pointed to the sky. "[Two paths are open to our people – the way of Light, and that which opposes it. There will be no bystanders. There will be no neutrality. All will choose their side - and all will face the consequences of their choices.]"
There was something about the voice…it sounded familiar for some reason. "[You have ordered your soldiers to commit atrocity against their fellow man,]" the figure continued. "[You have ordered evil be executed, by the justification of your rulers and ideologies. No longer. Surrender and be judged, or be condemned. There will be no second offer.]"
Aleksandra realized he wasn't talking to all of them – he was talking to specific people. Who? Their commanders? Officers? She wasn't sure, but this was enough to make her want to listen to the white-robed man. There was another silence that fell across the battlefield.
Then the orders came in. The voice of General Zverev, the leader of the operation.
"[Kill him.]"
Artillery fired, rockets were launched, and the sounds of a thousand guns fired. The place the man was sanding was obliterated in shrapnel, fire, and smoke. They fired at him, again and again. Aleksandra did not join in, her weapon placed to the side.
She wasn't the only soldier holding their fire.
The feeling of dread grew stronger. The sky shown brighter.
For nearly ten minutes they watched the small patch of land be obliterated, over and over again. She didn't know how long they would keep firing; how much firepower needed to be expended before it was considered sufficient.
Enough.
So commanding was the voice, that had she been holding her rifle, she would have felt compelled to throw it down. Almost immediately, the firing stopped, and the smoke began clearing. The man stood in the ruined land, without a single mark on him.
He hooked his fingers around his hood, lowered it, and took off his mask. Aleksandra's jaw dropped as she saw his face for the first time; one she'd seen on television many, many times before.
He was alive.
He was exactly as she had remembered, but his eyes were orbs of pure gold-white light. His face was stern, and gaze piercing as he stood alone before the might of the Soviet Union.
He spoke again.
"[So be it.]"
He stretched out his arms, and turned his face to the blinding heavens, as golden light engulfed his form. The lights in the sky began reacting, strands of it began descending, and golden sparks filled the air with an electric energy. A warm, comforting air descended upon them, as Aleksandra watched the display, transfixed, as they all did.
Then, the sounds of music filled the air.
EURASIAN OPERATIONS COMMAND | ANKARA | REPUBLIC OF INDIAN TERRITORIES
Sunder could only remember seeing Operations Command this busy a few times - one such time being when the first riots had begun. It was a large open arena-like format, packed with cutting-edge technology, quartered areas complete with screens and tools. Analysts and operators packed the center, the rapid cacophony of voices often generating a fast-paced atmosphere.
One that seemed especially noticeable right now.
Soldiers and analysts paused their work and saluted as he passed them, which he only gave a curt nod in return, preferring to ignore it in favor of reaching Jatayu's section of the room, where Ivan Karaulov and a few other senior officers and analysts were waiting for him.
Jatayu was operating the primary screen, the wiry man possessing an intensity that only came from raw focus. On the screen itself were metrics seemingly tuned to monitor the weather of the local area. "[I'm here,]" he greeted, giving Ivan a greeting nod. "[What's the situation?]"
"[First, this,]" Jatayu stood up, and indicated the screen. "[Take a look.]"
Sunder looked closer at the metrics, and quickly ascertained the issue. So surprised was he that he did a double take. "[That can't be right.]"
"[I asked for confirmation from the Soviet Weather Bureau, in case the instruments were wrong,]" Ivan said. "[They don't have our local equipment, but this is big enough to be picked up elsewhere. They confirmed it, and we verified with both American and Chinese satellites. Only a matter of time until amateurs also pick up on it.]"
Sunder considered the metrics for a long moment, for once uncertain about the next steps to take. The metrics displayed were, frankly, rather terrifying. Sandstorms were a fact of life in the desert - but in his decade of service in the region, he'd never seen a sandstorm as large and intense as these projections. And…
"[Hold,]" he frowned, taking a closer look at the numbers, noting a specific number, and contrasting that with storms he'd seen previously. "[This is forming at…six times the normal rate. Sandstorms don't spring out of nowhere like this. There are warning signs well before formation.]"
"[I know,]" Jatayu exhaled, revealing his frustration. "[It doesn't make any sense, but our sensors are telling it's real. The Soviets and Americans are saying the same thing, and our soldiers are reporting the clouds approaching. They're calling their officers, who are in turn calling us asking if they need to take shelter.]"
Sunder pursed his lips, a number of scenarios running through his head. This would be an issue on it's own, but it wasn't the only thing.
"[You said this was first thing you wanted to show me,]" Sunder finally said. "[What else is there?]"
"[We received a message, approximately twenty-two minutes ago,]" Jatayu handed him a paper that had been lying on the desk. "[Addressed to you.]"
He took the paper. There were two lines written on it, the top one was the original message in Arabic, and underneath was what had been translated by their linguists. It was very short, and to the point.
The Sandman cometh.
He snorted, looking back up. "[Is this a joke?]"
"[Rather dramatic, but I don't think we should dismiss it,]" Jatayu cautioned. "[It was only a matter of time until the Resistance took advantage of the situation. The Sandman's men likely intend to capitalize and take revenge. This storm gives cover against satellites, drones, and surveillance measures we rely on. They've used the tactic before.]"
"[Bold to threaten the most secure place in the region,]" Ivan commented. "[Not even the Israelis have targeted this base. Sandstorm or no, unless they've drastically altered their doctrine, this is a pointless endeavor. Or more likely, a lone action. Perhaps on the direction of the Quds.]"
Jatayu nodded. "[Analysts are running down a list of vulnerable locations on-site. They'll likely hit a weapons depot, resupply themselves, and execute logistics staff if found.]"
"[In this kind of storm?]" Sunder pursed his lips. "[I'm aware of the skill of the Sandmen, but this is shaping up to be the most intense storm in…]" He tried thinking of another storm that even came close to the intensity he was seeing.
"[Ever,]" Jatayu came to the same conclusion. "[There has never been one worse than what we're seeing right now.]"
"[Which makes the message interesting,]" Ivan picked up the paper. "[Psychological tactics, perhaps? An attempt to make us paranoid?]"
"[Doubtful,]" Sunder grunted. "[They likely intend to strike directly after the storm clears, before we send our people out. They are skilled enough that they'll be able to tell when it starts to abate before our sensors pick it up, and move in during that time. Clever bastards, they are.]"
"[Storm picked up, again,]" Jatayu noted incredulously. "[It's settling into a trajectory.]"
"[Direction?]"
"[Directly towards us,]" Jatayu whistled. "[We're going to get the worst of it. We need to issue emergency shelter in place now. Not even a skeleton crew. We need to risk these Sandmen.]" He shook his head. "[Not worth it to force our men to stay out.]"
"[They'd likely mutiny if you tried that,]" Ivan smirked without humor. "[However, we should move to battle footing for the aftermath, since we have confirmed terrorist activity in the area. I'll need to update Moscow, and I assume you need to update New Delhi about what's going on.]"
"[Correct,]" Sunder rubbed his forehead. Not that updating them would accomplish much. New Delhi wouldn't care about a sandstorm no matter how historic or minor terror threats. "[Inform New Delhi of the situation, Jatayu. I'll issue the shelter-in-place, with orders to prepare for counter-terrorist operations following the sandstorm.]"
Jatayu affirmed verbally, and was about to make the call when Ivan suddenly froze, narrowing his eyes – though not at either of them. "[Jatayu?]"
Jatayu glanced at him. "[Yes?]"
"[It's sped up again.]" Ivan pointed at the screen.
"[How?]" Jatayu demanded incredulously, apparently having enough, and storming over to where the weather analysts were seating. "[Did the storm mess with our equipment?]" He asked the analysts. "[Because whatever this is isn't just unprecedented, it's impossible.]"
Sunder mentally did a small rundown of the math, while factoring in the distance. The outer bands were going to hit them shortly, and the full brunt soon after. There was something very wrong here. Jatayu was right - Storms did not just materialize this fast, and continue to intensify at impossible rates. That was just something that didn't happen, and that didn't just apply to sandstorms.
No weather event happened like this-
He suddenly went still. Sunder became frozen in place as realization and revelation hit him like a thunderclap. He'd read the reports concerning the ill-fated Soviet operation against the British Isles. He recalled the eyewitnesses that had described a blizzard appearing out of literally nowhere, which had been confirmed by Triumvirate weather satellites. It'd been described as an 'impossible' storm, one which defied all conventional understanding.
Which meant…
They were here.
"[Get the men to battle stations!]" Sunder suddenly ordered. "[Full hazard environment gear mandator, and get a countdown timer. Now. Send a call for reinforcements, and issue a critical emergency alert to New Delhi! We're under attack.]"
Ivan was taken aback Sunder's sudden intensity. "[What is-]"
"[Britain. The blizzard. I know you read the report,]" Sunder jabbed a finger at the screen. "[Put it together.]"
Ivan did, and instantly paled as the ramifications of what was happening hit. "[I need to send a communication to Moscow now,]" he said curtly, beginning to walk away as Sunder turned back to the screen.
"[Commander!]" An officer called out. "[Our radios are being jammed. The sandstorm is interfering with all incoming and outgoing communications.]"
"[Our towers are designed to withstand sandstorms,]" Jatayu pointed out. "[We're not even close to performance thresholds yet.]"
"[Correct, sir, but this isn't a normal sandstorm,]" the analyst looked down at his screen. "[It's not just sand in the storm, sir. There's some kind of metals in the mix. It shouldn't be possible but-]"
"[Enough, understood,]" Jatayu cut him off, returning near Sunder's side as he intently focused on coordinating the Indian teams preparing. Sunder send out the shelter in place for all non-critical personnel at the same time, as well as made several attempts to reach New Delhi. It was one thing to deal with terrorists, but he knew very well that he was not prepared for whatever sorcery had taken place in Britain.
"[Signals are continuing to be lost,]" Jatayu updated, one hand to his earpiece. "[We're going to lose all outside communication in minutes. We're on our own until this finishes.]"
Sunder did the calculations in his head. They had over thousands of soldiers on base, more than usual due to the riots, all of them among the best India and the Soviets had to offer. They possessed top-of-the-line technology, defensive advantages, and automated systems. The latter would be rendered useless in the storm, but as long as they kept to their defensive positions, they could likely hold out.
Besides, with a storm this intense, it would have to hinder their attackers as much as them.
"[Commander!]"
He turned as another analyst ran up, quickly saluting, and his face nervous as he held another paper in his hand. "[Another message for you.]"
He took the paper and dismissed the analyst with a word. The paper was much like the first one. Very short, very direct.
No longer was this amusing. Amusement had become concern.
Only three words, but the message was clear all the same.
The Sandman arrives.
THE BATTLE OF ETHIOPIA
BORDER OF ETHIOPIA | ETHIOPIA
When the battle had begun, Valentin had resolved to ensure one thing, and one thing only.
That the only dead today would come by his hand.
While Saladin's forces had fought the Soviets, he had woven a tapestry of Light above the battlefield; a net of sorts to capture the souls of those who lost their physical lives in the battle below. Be they men and women who fought to defend their homes, or at the behest of tyrants, the outcome of this battle had been decided, and none of them could change it.
They only fought because they believed there was no other choice.
He did this for the men and women of the Soviet Union who were not evil. Those who were not beyond redemption. Those who did not deserve an inglorious and pointless end. Perhaps it would have been simpler to see the force that approached as one to simply destroy. And he could have done so.
He could have destroyed them so very easily.
He could have rained down judgement on them which they could scarcely comprehend. He could have allowed the forests and lands they walked to come alive and consume them. He could have dominated their minds, and rent their souls asunder to the Void. Under the golden Light, he was only limited by his imagination.
But these were not faceless automatons who marched.
They were people with homes, lives, and families. Men and women he had held comradery with; who believed in a mission and cause greater than themselves, as they struggled to live their lives as best they could. For some, this was their calling. It was their duty.
They could be blamed for their complacency, but could they truly challenge something they did not know was wrong? Without knowing the alternatives?
Perhaps, but he did not believe that was enough to condemn them. He had been such a person, not long ago. If people could not be afforded the opportunity to change, then Humanity itself was doomed, only fit to be cleansed from the world. To build the new Earth that would come after could not just come from those who had resisted from the start - they had to also include those whose eyes became opened.
They were Human, and they deserved the chance.
So, let them be given this second chance.
The Light turned his corporeal form into a beacon as he began the Lifesong. Only through Her could he manage a feat of this scale, and it was only a fraction of what this Song was capable of. Streams of golden Light descended from the skies, which themselves grew brighter. Paranormal sounds, ghosts of voices, and wisps of souls appeared; summoned as they answered the Song's call.
Across the battlefield, the Light seeped into everything, giving it a healthy, translucent sheen; golden sparks everywhere which littered the air like fireflies.
Above his hands, a horizontal beam of Light manifested, a realization of his amplified power which accelerated the Lifesong. So bright was he, so strong was the white-gold power he summoned, that all others had to turn their eyes away as their bodies became awash with the invigorating, enrapturing power. Every pain, ache, and exhaustion faded away, only to be replaced with strength, clarity and focus.
The barren lands, ripped apart by motor and shell, were not forsaken. Vegetation, grass, and plants sprouted, grew, or reformed before the eyes of the onlookers. The polluted river became pure, and even the dead animals stirred, as their flesh began healing, and their hearts beat once more.
In Soviet and African medical tents, and even on the battlefield, soldiers suffering grievous wounds found them healing as the Light touched their bodies. Corpses dirtied, dismembered, and bloodied saw them restored, pristine as before the battle. Valentin called their captured souls to return to their bodies, and the dead awoke from their rest.
In the golden expanse of possibility, Valentin saw everything as it had been, and what it must be. For him, it was as if they had never died, and he determined they could not. Reality was only what he would allow it to be, and today, there were none who would die by the bullet or shell.
The song that accompanied the power was a soothing, calm anthem, yet one which all those present could only listen to, enraptured. There was nothing else but the Song, and the one whose voice gave life to the dead.
As the last soul found their body, Valentin allowed the Lifesong to end, and the white-gold web overhead dissipate into nothingness in tune to the fading Song. As the power faded, he softly descended to the ground again, his boots now touching grass instead of bombed-out craters. The results of his handiwork were immediately apparent, for beyond the landscape restored, the men and women who were dead were now in various states of shock at being alive again.
There was cheering, crying, and joy throughout the battlefield. Soldiers who were abandoning their trenches, and putting their weapons down. Around him he saw no desire for war, only the joy of simply being alive, and bearing witness to revelation.
Valentin smiled, and placed the mask back on his face. He felt Her approval on the edges of his mind. This was how they would triumph, and this day was almost finished.
Only one question remained – what would come next.
BORDER OF ETHIOPIA | ETHIOPIA
As the rest of the African forces were recovering, the Soviets appeared to have made a decision – and were approaching him. Expected, though it remained to be seen what their ultimate intentions were.
Valentin let them approach, taking note of who they were. Their ranks and positions were a simple matter to determine, and he was interested to see a relatively diverse collection approaching. A General, a couple majors, colonels, and a lone lieutenant. Many who had chosen their side.
And remained unrepentant about it.
It did not hide the fear poorly concealed on their faces, or the quickened heartrates and increased perspiration. Terror they felt, yet still persisted, believing that some kind of arrangement could be made. That their part in this war could be forgotten.
He would allow them the opportunity to explain themselves.
The soldiers, both African and Soviet, watched the meeting in the middle of No Man's Land with bated breath. No one knew what would happen next. No one knew what even should happen next.
The entourage stopped a meter from Valentin. "[Valentin Kozhukhov, was it?]" The General asked rhetorically.
"[You know the answer to that, General Zverev,]" Valentin answered. "[Why are you here?]"
"[I…expected that would be obvious,]" Zverev said, frowning. "[To discuss our…next steps. It is clear that more conflict will not benefit either side.]" Unspoken was the acknowledgement that Valentin would not let another conflict happened.
This one would be judged.
For now, Valentin merely watched him closely. "[And what would you propose?]"
There was some discussion among the entourage, whispers they believed he could not hear. He could. Their words simply did not matter. What they wished was immaterial. What they expected was irrelevant.
"[Our forces go our separate ways,]" Zverev finally said. "[While I cannot guarantee that Moscow won't attempt another offensive, I will do my best to-]"
Little point is extending this discussion.
"[No.]"
Valentin lifted a hand, palm vertical to the ground.
"[You will do nothing.]"
Zverev's voice died in his throat at the interruption, swallowing. A second passed, and he started coughing. He reached for his collar, attempting to loosen it in a vain attempt to save himself.
Valentin watched dispassionately. "[You cannot deceive me, General. You cannot lie to me. You have no comprehension or understanding of what you have done, or will do. You believe this is merely war. You possess an expectation that your authority shields you from responsibility.]"
The other Soviets in the entourage stepped backwards, faces morphing into horror as Zverev began to visibly deteriorate in front of them, wisps of Light manifesting around his body as his skin dried and body shriveled.
"[Today you led thousands of men to kill thousands of other men, in the name of Clovis Bray, and under the banner of the Triumvirate.]" Valentin rendered his sentence with undisputed authority. "You do not regret. You do not comprehend, even now. It matters not. You have chosen your side, and you have been judged. Return to dust, and let your remains nourish the soil.]"
Splayed on the ground, the body of Zverev contracted in a final movement. Skin flaked off, muscles unraveled, organs burst, and bones became dust, leaving nothing but a collection of clothes on the ground. Valentin let the moment last, before raising his eyes to the Soviets, whose faces were pale, ad their eyes frightened.
"[Let me be clear,]" Valentin paced in front of them. "[I do not hold the men behind you as solely responsible for the decisions made. They follow their duty, as is expected of them. It is wrong to expect them to risk themselves in such a manner, for I know how dissidents are treated. I know too well.]" His pace stopped. "[It is not the same for those who lead them.]"
His gaze pierced each one of them. "[You know better. You understand what this achieves. You have participated in such atrocities before, and some of you may do so again if given the chance. This chance will not be afforded. I see who you are, and today your sins extract their price.]"
Several others in the entourage began to exhibit the symptoms of the late General, which Valentin merely observed, as he effortlessly wove the Light around them.
He felt nothing at this execution, only duty. He saw their true natures, and that there was no redemption for them. Men and women who only craved power, worshipped supremacy, or were loyal to the very end. They had made their choices. They had chosen their sides.
So be it. He would oblige them.
"[I am here to offer a new way for Humanity,]" Valentin declared, as the condemned fell to the earth, disintegrating and shriveling before his eyes. "[I have come to burn the empires of old, and build something greater in their place. This, I offer. This, I will fight for. For those that join me, they will help build this new world for our species.]"
The last of the condemned turned to dust.
"[For those who do not, there will be only judgement,]" Valentin finished. "[There will be no more second chances. There will be no more forgiveness. There will be no mercy. Evil will be purged from this Earth, illuminated by the Light. There is one question that matters,]"
He appraised the remaining Soviets – only three in total.
"[Which side are you on?]"
There was silence for only a moment.
The last Colonel stepped forward – Kozlovskaya was her name. "[As acting commander of this battalion…we would like to discuss our terms of surrender to your forces…Mr. Kozhukhov.]"
He realized he hadn't actually given them his title, only revealed his identity. "[I am the Speaker of the Traveler, Colonel. That title will suffice – and your offer of surrender is accepted. You're making the right choice.]"
Valentin suspected not all of the soldiers would feel as certain about it, but they would come around. "[Then I suppose there is work to do,]" Kozlovskaya said, straightening. "[Are you the leader of these forces, Speaker?]"
"[No, that would be Field Marshal Saladin,]" Valentin turned, and motioned for her to follow. "[Come with me, and we will formalize the details of your surrender.]"
EURASIAN OPERATIONS COMMAND | ANKARA | REPUBLIC OF INDIAN TERRITORIES
The storm had reached them, and they could now hear it's howl. According to what little they could determine from their instruments, it was hovering over them. It's trajectory had completely stopped, leaving the base to be pelting them with the metal-infused sand.
Trepidation was not an emotion Sunder was familiar with, let alone another, more dangerous one like fear. Nothing had been worthy enough to warrant that level of concern. Everything was just a question, an issue, or problem to be solved. They were roadblocks at worst, inconveniences at best. Hamaza's band had been, and was ultimately nothing but a group of terrorists.
They couldn't effect change, they could only kill, and he certainly knew they couldn't kill him.
This was different.
It was unnatural. Dangerous. Threatening in a way rogue terrorists had never been.
Every soldier at their disposal was in position. Operations Command was keeping in contact with the units every five minutes to be ready to confirm any sightings. However, the atmosphere in Operations Command had turned to one of growing dread - not from him, but those who lacked his composure. He only needed to look at the faces of the analysts, technicians and even soldiers who waited at their stations, helpless to do more than wait.
It was in the hands of the soldiers outside.
"[Commander,]" Jatayu said quietly, leaning over, one hand on his earpiece. "[Some officers are reporting the hazard gear is failing.]"
Ivan heard the update, and seemed taken aback. His pacing halted as he moved closer, complete befuddlement on his face. "[How? Indian hazard gear is higher rated for desert operations than any other?]"
"[The sand, and wind]" Jatayu answered. "[They're reporting the winds are so strong they're degrading their gear and armor. It's grinding them down, and weaker elements like straps are rapidly fraying. They're instituting rotating shifts as a result.]" He paused. "[They've already pulled off a few men whose skin was briefly exposed. They say it's bad.]"
"[No one can survive something like this,]" Ivan shook his head. "[We should pull them in.]"
"[No, otherwise we let them achieve whatever they are planning,]" Sunder dismissed, scowling. This situation was nothing but an array of bad options. "[Authorize the officers to do what they need, but we need men out there.]"
"[Commander!]" One officer called out. "[Unit Sixteen-Alpha has made contact!]"
Some vindication for the plan. "[Keep in contact!]" Sunder ordered.
It wasn't the only such update. More officers and analysts called out their own updates, confirming that multiple units were now experiencing contact with…something. The reports were disjointed, vague, and borderline useless. Some reported they saw shadows moving in the sandstorm, others claimed they were being fired upon.
It was enough to make one wonder if they were seeing things, were it not for the fact that one by one, they stopped reporting.
The atmosphere in the room darkened.
"[Commander,]"
Jatayu swallowed. "[We've lost all contact with the outer perimeter units.]"
"[All of them?]"
A pregnant, frightening pause.
"[All of them.]"
The rest of the room wasn't privy to the discussions they were having, nor fully grasped the situation - but they knew that no news was good news. With analysts and officers calling out when engagements were happening, the slow loss of contact with each unit left little to the imagination.
Terror was nolonger a distant sentiment; it was starting to grip those in the room. Trepidation was evolving to fear, even in his own heart, as Operations Command slowly turned from a center of control and power to a prison from where they could only watch. Or, perhaps not a prison.
A tomb.
A shriek caught his attention, and he spun towards the sound, and saw one of the analysts staring horrified at one of the air vents. A closer look revealed the grains of sand leaking from the vents, a small trickle. Sunder's eyes couldn't help but widen, and a jolt of alarm shot through him. That shouldn't be possible. The base had the strongest filters possible to prevent this kind of contamination.
Jatayu shook his head as Sunder turned to him, anticipating the demand. "[Don't know. Only guess is that the storm wore the filters down, and with the winds as strong as they are…]"
He didn't need to finish. If sand was leaking in Operations Command, it indicated that the entire air circulation was compromised. They weren't going to suffocate, but it was going to get hot in here very soon, and become infested with sand. He hoped the Triumvirate had decided to respond at this point. They had to see what was happening, and reinforcements could arrive within the hour from the Caucuses or even Riyadh.
But what could they do?
They couldn't fight a sandstorm. They couldn't shoot or bomb it. They could only endure it, although with a storm like this, perhaps not even that.
"[Receiving reports of contact by inner defense units,]" Jatayu said, his voice purposefully low. "[They're not in good shape. Half of their men are out because of hazard suit breaches. Going out without it is suicide. Three men were blinded by just the storm.]" Jatayu's face grew grimmer. "[Some men are refusing to go into the storm.]"
They couldn't fight. They couldn't leave.
He didn't know what to do now.
The idea of just sitting and waiting for whatever this was to come to them was horrifying to consider, but what options were there? He couldn't simply order everyone to march outside and be killed by the sandstorm. Yet doing nothing was…
His only option.
They were sitting here, waiting to die.
More sand filled the room. It was no longer a trickle, but falling out of the vents at a steady pace, and pooling on the ground. The sounds of the storm seemed louder now, and Sunder wondered what damage it was doing to the structure itself. With how strong this storm was, even if they somehow survived this, so much would need to be repaired.
"[Inner defense units have gone silent,]" Jatayu updated. "[Our defenses are decimated. We have no one left.]"
No one left.
Sunder almost laughed.
No one left.
"[That's…nearly twelve thousand men]," Ivan whispered haltingly, voice cracking. "[It can't be. That's not- It can't be.]"
Sunder leaned on the nearby desk, gripping the edges tightly. His heart raced faster; faster, as he wracked his brain for something to do now. Something to escape this situation. Even being able to warn the rest of the Triumvirate would be better than standing in this tomb.
Knock.
Everyone jumped.
Knock.
Heads turned.
Knock.
They turned towards Operations Command's security door.
An analyst rushed towards him in the commotion, holding in shaking hands another piece of paper. Trying to prevent his own hands from shaking. Sunder took it without a word, dreading the message that he knew would be inside.
He opened it.
The Sandman is here.
Ivan read it, and laughed. The sound bordering on hysterical.
More sand filled the room. They no longer just heard the howling wind, they could feel it; their skin crawled as they listened to the shrieking of something being ground down molecule by molecule.
Jatayu glanced at him. Everyone else did too.
Waiting for orders.
"[Weapons out, defensive formations,]" Sunder commanded, his voice weak in comparison to the sounds of the storm outside their walls. At the least, they might be able to fight here. The analysts and non-combat personnel ran to the back of the room, as the soldiers, himself and Ivan included, moved forward with their own weapons.
Tables were turned on their sides to act as makeshift barricades. Rifles were steadied and aimed at the door. He pretended that it would be enough. He knew it wouldn't be nearly enough.
Wisps of sand blew into the room, through gaps in the door.
He needed to take the chance. Whoever was doing this was outside the door. Perhaps, by a miracle, they could surprise him. "[Ready!]"
The door disintegrated, and a blast of sand pierced the room, followed by a wave of heat.
So overwhelming was its intensity, that Sunder was forced to turn away, wincing - but not before he gave the order. "[Open fire!]"
More sand poured into the room, whipping around them as they fired into the doorway. He could see nothing, hear nothing, only feel the recoil of his gun. His eyes stung, his vision was blurry, his skin blistered. He could not fight an element like this.
The storm calmed.
The howl became a whistle.
Through teary eyes, they looked up – just in time for a hurricane of glass and metal and sand to blast through the corridor, shrieking through the hallways, and howling into Operations Command. The results were immediate. The front line of soldiers were grinded into red slithers.
Tables were turned to scrap.
Rifles swallowed into dust.
The hurricane of sand and metal did not stop, and spread deeper, tearing them apart.
He felt his arms ripped to shreds.
His legs torn to bits.
And then, that silence.
Sunder opened his eyes, and he saw him.
The man in the center of the storm, a star-like machine floating by his shoulder. His glimpse was only for a moment, but it was clear. He saw the face of the man who had rendered this slaughter, outlined by the soft glow of golden light.
"[D-died,]" he sputtered with ruined lips. "[You- you died!]"
The Sandman noticed him.
Leaned down.
And looked him in the eye.
"[And now the eyes of cowards will never sleep,]" the Sandman answered, resting a hand on Sunder's chest.
Sand swallowed Sunder, grinding him into red dust.
And so fell the last man of the Eurasian Operational Command.
The storm finally abated.
Six hours had passed from the first moment of its detection, to the last bands dissipating into the desert wind. Across the world, meteorologists, observers, and people from all walks of life had followed the once-in-a-millennia sandstorm that had appeared out of nowhere - and disappeared just as quickly.
The Triumvirate did not waste time getting eyes on what had happened.
No one from Eurasian Operations Command was responding.
As drones flew over, and satellites collected images, the true extent of the damage was revealed. The Eurasian Operational Command, one of the most protected, fortified, and critical installations in the world, had become a sandblasted husk of itself. Smaller infrastructure had been reduced to splinters or shrapnel, grinded down to almost nothing.
Sand buried everything. Roads had been completed rendered useless. Only shells of vehicles had survived. Anything that wasn't metal had been disintegrated. Buildings had their walls grinded off, and most had caved in, so weak had their foundations become.
It no longer resembled anything built in the modern era. One would believe the remains to be an archeological site rather than a hub of Triumvirate authority.
A symbol of power, reduced to a ruin.
The drones, satellites, and helicopters were unable to locate any bodies were identified - but they quickly ascertained there weren't any bodies to recover. If the storm had been powerful enough to cause this kind of damage, they'd be lucky to even find partial remains of the dead.
Then, a signal went out. A transmission.
A message that, like a certain address had done before, found itself on the televisions, radios, and media of men and women across the world.
The befuddled Triumvirate technicians were uncertain how this was even happening, for it was clearly broadcasting from inside Operations Command. Only when they realized it was only the signal emerging, and not utilizing any existing equipment, did a picture begin emerging over what was broadcasting the signal.
On the screens of televisions across the world, a stark image appeared.
Within it stood a single man, in a room coated by sand. A man who unwrapped his face, and looked into the camera with piercing eyes.
A dead man.
The Sandman.
No Ghost hovered by his shoulder – but the technicians knew it was the source of the signal.
The dead man spoke.
"[They bring us death,]" he began. "[Let them know, we bring men who desire it. We, who desire it more than they desire life. They demand us obey. Let them know, we kneel to no tyrants. They show us their might. Let them know - their might is naught but empty fear.]"
"[We,]" his voice rose. "[Are not afraid.]"
"[We,]" his voice thundered. "[Will not cower!]"
One fist was raised to the sky, eyes aflame with power, and voice shaking the air. "[We are the sons of man! Let the whole world hear me! We will not be broken. We will not yield even for death itself. Let the tyrants know, and let them fear, the Sandman returns!]"
The fist lowered, though the voice was no less intense, the eyes no less piercing, the authority no less commanding. The tyrants watched, and worried. The uncertain heard, and worried. The defiant listened, and new hope began blooming. The men of Arabia believed, and they cheered for the man who had returned from the dead.
"[Hear me, proud sons of Arabia, proud heirs of all Humanity,]" Shaheed's voice thundered.
"[This is war. A war which will end only when the tyrants are entombed in their thrones.]"
Across Arabia, men and women gathered their resources, grabbed their weapons, and readied themselves.
"[I declare a Caliphate of my people. A Caliphate of Man!]"
The words were spoken, and set destiny along a path that could no longer be avoided.
"[I declare jihad unending! I declare an age of martyrs. I declare the end of tyrants. I declare defiance.]"
Rebels, soldiers, and insurgents in Arabia and beyond cheered at his words, all division and uncertainty forgotten as the path before them was laid clear. Divine purpose filled their hearts, and resolved stiffened their spines.
The Sandman beat a fist against his chest, a motion that would become common in the days to follow. "[I declare, that God is Greater!]"
The signal cut, and a sense of foreboding descended upon the tyrants.
For they would know no peace for as long as they lived.
OFFICE OF THE GENERAL SECRETARY | MOSCOW | SOVIET UNION
"Continue," Clovis instructed Satou.
The woman cleared her throat, and obliged. "We managed to complete a working prototype of the ORACLE project…with some asterisks." She tapped a button on her arm, and a hologram displaying Clovis' chassis, along with the proposed augmentations were displayed. "The good news is that we know it can work, but there remain a few lingering questions."
Clovis reviewed the hologram, taking into account it's numerous design incorporations, how well it fitted with his chassis. Yes, it would fit quite well into his body, with minimal additional bulk.
"And this prototype," Clovis said. "Elaborate on the decided delivery system."
"Multi-missile anti-personnel system," Satou explained, the hologram altering to focus on the missiles in question. "Given recent…developments, it appears that was the right call. The weapon system is an integrated platform, able to synchronize with any appropriately sized Exo model. The armaments are capable of firing barrages of six micro-missiles at a time, and each missiles can have a variety of warheads installed."
Impressive as usual, however he wasn't interested in the good news.
"But there's a catch."
"The system requires significant investment," Satou grimaced. "Because of how it…" she waved a hand. "Functions, we can't mass produce it. The cost is so high that we can only afford one prototype right now. More will take time."
Expected, and he was content with that for now. "What finally contributed to the breakthrough?
"Our research into the Reality Anchors," she confirmed. "Unsurprising, but it gave us the keys to making ORACLE work."
"In what way?"
"The system is capable of locking onto a multitude of targets," Satou explained. "But it does not use a tracking system. It…fires at where the targets will be, not where they are anticipated to go. It removes the guesswork involved. It can't be tricked, disrupted, or avoided."
Quite interesting. "You are saying that you created a weapons platform that can predict the future."
"Not…really," Satou quickly disputed. "We believe that it is…locking certain possibilities in place, for lack of a better term. The future is impossible to predict due to its sheer variability. Paracausality is the ability to alter realities, in positive and negative ways – which in a sense is predicting the future. Everyone alive exists on a linear timestream. This platform can tap into that, through methods that we still aren't entirely sure of, and exploit it."
It wasn't the most satisfying explanation, but it was sufficient for his curiosity. What he appreciated most was that this opened the door to more projects of a similar type. In it he saw a future where Humanity's destiny was certain – one that would be written in paracausal stone, with only him holding the power to change it.
However, there was one important thing to confirm first.
"Good work – though I have a critical question," Clovis paused for effect. "Will it work against these Guardians?"
Satou grimaced.
"The asterisks I mentioned earlier? This is one of them," Satou admitted. "The truth is that we're not sure. We believe that, like the Traveler, these so-called Guardians are also fully or semi-paracausal beings. It is very possible that they exist outside the linear timestream, and the platform may not be able to be as effective. At minimum I would expect that Guardians might be able to counter the ORACLE."
An unfortunate limitation – potentially. However, he couldn't exactly fault the Black Armory for it. It wasn't as though they could test it effectively, and as it stood, this platform was exactly what would be needed to deal with the more conventional forces that had arrayed against him.
"Prepare the Deep Stone Crypt to service this upgrade," he ordered. "And convey my appreciation to your engineers. Guardians or no, I expect this will prove to be quite useful."
She gave a short bow. "I certainly will, General Secretary. Thank you for the support you have provided." While he expected her to leave, she hesitated for a moment. "If I may ask a question, General Secretary?"
"Of course."
"When will we act? This current stance is unsustainable. We are surrendering the narrative to them."
His eyes glowed brightly, if he could smile, he would have. "You will see shortly. I have learned what I needed. The Traveler revealed her final secret. Now we will put all of our work to the test. There are many long days and nights ahead. Is the Black Armory prepared?"
"We are, General Secretary."
"Very good. Dismissed."
She left his office, leaving him alone.
Silence now, but for the soft whistle of the air conditioning.
He wondered if the Traveler understood Human emotions better than he had believed, for he felt that it was supremely ironic to not only bring Valentin Kozhukhov and the Sandman back from the dead – but make them the faces of the forces arrayed against him.
Resurrection.
A marvel that even he could not deny was a potent revelation. Not even death was beyond the reach of the alien, which was something of a problem. Resurrection seemed to not be something limited to these Guardians, if Valentin's stunt in Africa was any indication. He was, to his admitted surprise, facing the very real possibility of an undying army.
Such was the assessments he was inundated with. The narrative was awash with predictions about how such a force couldn't be stopped. Panic and terror were revealing those whose minds were weak, and would bend at the pressure applied to them.
An undying army was what most men would see.
He was less concerned.
Technologically, militarily, economically, numbers mattered little. As technology progressed, the easier it became to kill. One thousand, one million, at a certain point numbers were outclassed by the weaponry available. A single missile could wipe out dozens of soldiers. A single nuclear weapon could extinguish millions of lives. It was merely a matter of applying the right weapons to the forces arrayed against him.
No, he wasn't necessarily concerned about the numbers – if millions had to die – then so be it.
There was another critical aspect here – the resurrected were still Human.
Humans weren't made to live and die and live again. They weren't prepared to handle the psychological impact of seeing loved ones blown apart repeatedly. Losing people was hard enough for one time – how much worse would it be if it was repeated? What if the next time was the last? He was curious about such ramifications - no doubt psychologists would be studying the effects for years to come.
Nor did it seem resurrection came without consequence. It wasn't quite clear yet – but from CIA and KGB assessments, it seemed that after a certain amount of damage had been sustained, the resurrected returned in body, but not mind. A shell of a Human, with none of the memories that had made it.
In a way, that might be worse than death. To perish, but come back without yourself.
A philosophical question he didn't spend time pondering. The numbers were immaterial.
The Guardians mattered.
He had known that any conflict with the Traveler would have to contend with the power she brought to bear – what had remained unknown was what form it would take. Machines, avatars, technologies, this had remained the biggest question. Now though, he had his answer. He had made a gambit, and the Traveler had indulged him, in her arrogance believing this display of raw power would shake the Triumvirate to its core.
And it was such a thunderous display.
It was a bit dramatic, even for his tastes. Shaheed's declaration of a Caliphate, and Valentin's grand resurrection of Ethiopian and Soviet forces alike, it was engineered to be a spectacle; finely tailored to shake the faith of even the strongest adherent of the Triumvirate. He could not fault either man – they had played their roles to perfection.
It would just make what came next taste so much more bitter in comparison.
Clovis idly recognized that there was a high chance that he was not yet done contending with Hayden Fox. If those with Ghosts were returning from the dead, he felt it was unfortunately likely that Fox would emerge again at some point.
He'd have to be careful. At the same time, he now knew what shape this war would take.
One that centered around the Guardians.
The Light they could wield was a truly powerful thing – far beyond what mere technology could match – at least to some degree. When that was denied – then what were they really? Men pretending to be soldiers and gods? It remained to be seen, but it was time to give the Guardians a small reminder about their mortality.
And deal with some problems that required long-overdue solutions.
He reviewed the initial report provided by the Izanagi Battalion – all of whom were moving to put down the revolts in Eastern Europe. That was going to be a good field test, while the true battlefields would be in Africa, the Middle East, and Asia. The armies were being raised, and the war was to truly begin.
Time to strike back.
The Traveler had sent her message.
Now he would send his, and his would be thunderous in his own right.
With a single command distributed to his designated agents, he turned to his holotable, and an image of the globe appeared, one with little red dots that overlooked the planet. Warsats that had remained in orbit for years, the results of the American STAR WARS project that had evolved to a joint Triumvirate initiative.
An early superweapon to employ in the event of a conflict; something that had fallen out of favor over time, for what would require such power?
The Traveler may have removed their nuclear weapons – but she had neglected the Warsats. After all, how much damage could rods of tungsten do in comparison? He knew the answer, but was unsure if she did.
He wondered if the omission was intentional, or if the alien had simply not considered it.
He supposed he would find out shortly.
Once by one, the Warsat icons shifted from red to green, indicating readiness to fire. The British Isles. Israel. The cities that had been claimed by revolutionaries. Their end was coming – and while it would not end the war, it would shake them, as they had intended to shake him. It would remind them of a stark, simple truth.
This war had only just begun.
The last satellite clicked green.
He gave the final authorization.
Let the heavens fall, and the wrath of God smite those who would claim the power of Divinity.
NIGHT OF THE CHORUS
INVICTUS | TRIUMVIRATE COLONIAL ADMINISTRATION | NEPTUNE
The time had finally come.
Micah had felt the Song intensify consistently for the past few days, as if it was reacting to something she could not identify. It was now an eternal constant inside her head, drowning out anything else Micah could think of.
She had completely lost the ability to sleep, as the Song commanded, demanded, every second of her conscious existence for itself. She stopped attending her classes, stopped eating, stopped any activity which the Song did not permit.
Her days had passed with her doing nothing but prostrating herself before the Statue, where the Song was clearest, loudest, and most beautiful.
A past version of herself would have been terrified at the changes her psyche was undergoing; revolted at how thin she was, at how her lips were cracked from lack of hydration. Of the flood of black, viscous liquid which now poured from her eyes, rendering her previous efforts at hiding now nothing more than futile gestures.
Childish, distant dreams.
As if there had been a part of her that wished to hide what she was becoming. As if there was still a fragment of the old, pathetic, Micah still in there trying to fight back. To resist.
But such was impossible.
And that was good.
Good.
Good.
Good.
She was now a student of the Song. She sat in meditation in front of the Statue. Her teacher, her inspiration.
Her Salvation.
She tasted the word. Repeated it over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
It felt right. It was beautiful. It had such meaning, and yet she had never thought the concept possible. Not without guidance. Not without someone to offer it.
Humans tended to assign words to impossible concepts. Things which would never be achieved. Which would never be reached.
Eternity.
Singularity.
Paradise.
Salvation.
Micah could feel that last word emanating from the Song. She now realized it was more than a Song. It was a message. A prophecy. It was all and more.
A black knife etching its mark upon the cosmos. Upon the mesh which underwrote reality itself.
Paracausal.
But not like the alien that had come to their System.
The alien now invoked revulsion in her. It promised so much, it fed the minds of her people with lies, led them astray from the only true path. The path of the Song. The reverence to its truths.
The Song did not lie.
The Song did not promise.
The Song simply was.
And one did not need to believe in what was.
What Was held power over what could be, for it was material. More than ideas or hopes or aspirations. It needed no belief to be made real.
The longer she meditated, the more she understood.
The Song slowly peeled back every mystery Micah could think of, and she drank the knowledge with a thirst which eclipsed the suffocated needs of her own physical vessel.
The alien now had a name.
The Traveler.
Celestial.
Adversary.
The alien had come to lead them astray. Away from the path. Away from the one self-evident, self-proving truth. That which needed no belief to be proven.
That which governed above all else.
She needed to know more, and the Song provided. It would always provide, for she was its pupil. She was the First, and it was her right to learn.
Where her body shriveled slowly under lack of sustenance, her mind expanded. Beyond simple knowledge, beyond the limited range of someone who only had two eyes to see.
With a thought, she could visualize a mesh, a series of strands and psychic connections running through every living being. She could leave her body and follow these paths to their conclusions. Errant thoughts led to people. Concentrations led to masses. Masses led to nations.
She could see the entirety of Neptune, and read the thoughts of every single resident like the pages of an open encyclopedia. She understood them all. She nourished her curiosity on them all. There was no hiding from her, and the Song approved.
She could see their hearts. Some were reaching the same conclusions as her. And yet many resisted the Song. Futilely, of course, but they still tried. They collapsed on the streets of Invictus as the Song swelled. Inside facilities. Inside the same schools that had brought her such torment before.
Grasping heads. Raw screams. Madness. Disorder.
And why wouldn't they?
They could not shed that which limited them. They could not cast aside the chains which had been forced on their minds. Dogmas of weakness. Dogmas of complacency. Old ideas which had festered and planted their roots deep within them.
And the enemy, the Celestial, as it called itself, was the source of this sickness.
A sickness which had taken hold inside Papa's mind. He should have been here, at her side, undergoing the same metamorphosis as his daughter.
And yet he struggled inside his cocoon. She saw him grasp his head in pain inside his office.
It was sad. He did not deserve to be kept from the truth. To see Papa like this brought her immense pain, and rage. Rage at the Celestial, rage at the Triumvirate, rage at the foolishness of her people.
And Hector.
Dad.
You are not here with us.
You should be here with us.
He had fled to Earth. To the nest of the Celestial.
To the cradle of lies.
She would come for him. She would save him.
But first, she needed to save those on Neptune.
A spider which cannot molt will die. It will exhaust itself as it tries to free itself from its prison. A depressing fate, unfitting of those with potential.
She did not need to sit idly and watch this unfold. She would save them all.
As in response to Micah's desire, the Statue before her began to move.
Majestic.
She knew it was more than a piece of carved rock. She knew her devotion would be rewarded.
She giggled. She laughed. She cackled until her lungs burned, pleading for air. She ignored the feeble requests of her flesh to rest. She was more than her limitations, and she commanded her body to no longer need oxygen until her unrestrained mirth ceased. And to her lack of surprise, her body obeyed.
Such were the gifts of the Song. Such was the potential all of them could achieve.
The sword the Statue held melted into its body, and it extended its arms in supplication, and then brought its hands together, steepled into the shape of a triangle.
Its head moved down, and Micah felt unseen eyes bearing down upon her.
Yes.
I am seen.
The Song reached its crescendo. The final note she had so patiently waited for.
The Statue emitted a haunting echoing call which reverberated throughout the mesh of Neptune. The strands she could now clearly see, ones which had been so clearly woven since its arrival to this world. Her third eye opened as the sound was directed towards her.
And she answered back. Her voice amplified to the same gravitas and weight as that of the Statue.
She somehow knew what words to answer. They were psalms and chants that seemed more like the calls of deep-sea creatures than Human words. Words and sounds which felt like they were submerged in something unseen. Their clarity obscured by the pressure which now charged the very air with black divinity.
The Statue called once again, and she answered.
She finally realized what the Song was. She cursed herself for her foolishness, for her ignorance. It was so clear now.
An Antiphon.
Holy liturgy between cantor and congregation. Call and response. The Statue had been waiting for a response this whole time, its Song unanswered for so long. They had all repeated the Song, enthralled by its artistry, and never did they realize they were missing its other half.
But Micah now saw it. She was the First to see it.
And how perfectly she would sing.
She and the Statue were calling to something greater.
Someone greater.
And with each call of the statue, Micah could feel her power intensifying. With each response she offered, she started visualizing the strands behind the psychic mesh as something physical. Beautiful emerald strings, with a lustrous, flowing Darkness running through them all, the Song's gift and magnificence clear.
Strings she could grasp. Strings she could touch.
Strings she could pull.
And she did, as the Antiphon progressed. Neptune shook, broke, and was reformed with each holy sacrament the pair uttered, each word heavier than the last. Each word intensifying the roaring of the ground which was but a simple afterthought in the face of this perfection.
Micah wrapped her grasp around the mind of every citizen in Neptune. All of them were too weak to break out of their shells by themselves, so she would help them.
She closed her grip on the strands which ran through them, the primordial filaments which made up their very beings.
She felt their horror, their helplessness, and uttered a single command.
Do not be afraid.
And so, they went still. Unblinking, unmoving, but their minds still resisted.
She would fix that soon enough, as she was still in the process of dominating this Luster which had been gifted to her, but she had one person she needed to talk to before she did. One person she needed to make see.
Papa.
Still inside his office, she reached into the threads of his mind, and made herself be seen.
He screamed as the image appeared inside his head.
Too simpleminded, the man was. Her face was sunken and gaunt, eyes pitch black as the dark liquid ran from them like blessed waterfalls. He could not appreciate that she was more than this flesh. All he saw was his daughter transformed, all he saw was a monster.
Disappointing.
Papa was a man of the sciences. A man of great intellect and drive. Why then, could he not see the sheer possibility before him? Why was he so confined to his small worldviews? Why did he deny that which needed no faith to accept? The one axiom which ruled Sovereign above the rest?
They were ants inside a box, and for the first time she could see beyond its limits. For the first time she could fly.
WHY WAS HE NOT HAPPY?
And even worse, he resisted the call of the Song with all the might and willpower he could muster. He did not want to be free. The Celestial's taint was within him.
Useless. Such is useless.
Embrace it.
You can be more.
You will be more.
Micah spoke to Papa, her voice as gentle as she could make it, and yet he screamed as her words grazed the delicate structures of his ordered mind. A mind which could be shattered so easily by the Adversary and its lies. A mind which would be hers forever.
Micah would save him. Her love for him was immense. He had always been there for him, and her ascension was only possible by the nurturing he and Dad had provided for her.
Dad was gone, he had betrayed their family and such would be corrected in due time. He would be made to see as well.
But Papa was right here.
Micah extended one lone finger and grazed at the strand which ran through Papa's mind.
Papa was right here.
His screaming intensified as he felt the invasion. The violation. But those were his blind instincts. Like a child receiving a vaccine. The pain is temporary, the benefit forever. He simply did not know any better.
Papa was right here.
She stabbed one long nail into the strand. Papa convulsed on the floor as his being was overwritten. As the truths Micah had learned from her master were force fed into the man.
Papa was right there.
Papa was sad.
She did not want him to be sad.
Papa stood. A smile wide on his face. His eyes leaked holy waters freely. Tears of joy. Tears of freedom. Of a father proud of his daughter. Revelation coursing through his mind.
She grabbed the strand which ran through him, and yanked it.
HUG ME PAPA.
The man flew from his office, encased in emerald Luster that atomized every obstacle he ran into as he was forcefully dragged towards Micah by the strand which she violently pulled from the psychic mesh.
Papa was now beside her, and he prostrated himself at the feet of the Statue, which continued singing the Antiphon. He joined her in answering the call, his expression one of pure pride at her accomplishment. At how she had been the First, and she would guide them all towards Salvation.
She hugged him tightly.
Finally, he saw.
Finally, he was proud.
Finally, she was a good daughter.
She screamed in pure joy as her dreams were realized, and emitted a psionic howl which shook Neptune to its core.
Neptune would be their new home. Away from the Adversary. Away from the Triumvirate. Away from the lies.
And this House of Truth would need a family. A family which was right here, waiting to be saved like Papa.
She opened her psychic eye, and visualized every single strand which ran through every citizen of Neptune.
Enough resistance.
She forced herself upon their minds. Like a wave crashing against a sandcastle. Any resistance they could have posed simply melted away. Her gift would not be denied. The Luster would not be resisted.
Like Papa, their minds were filled with truth. Any reservations, any horror, any limitations were removed. Their chains were gone. She yanked at their strands, and brought them all to the presence of the Statue.
FAMILY.
These were her people.
Here, they would be the start of a Humanity freed from the Triumvirate. Freed from the Celestial, the word almost making her retch in revulsion and hatred.
Here, they would cast away their chains.
What shape would they take after?
Micah wanted to know.
Micah needed to know.
And it was then, as Micah's family answered refrain after refrain from the Statue, as Neptune's bones were broken and set once again, as the feeble city of the Triumvirate was turned from cold, sterile metal into something far grander, that Micah realized the Statue was no more than an implement. A point of emanation, belonging to a vast web.
Through her psychic eye, she saw a single strand emerging from the Statue's head. It was thick, powerful, glistening in a dark orange resonance unlike the strands which ran through mortals. Not something she could, or would even dare manipulate.
The lone tendril extended from the top of the Statue and reached for the vast cosmos above.
The Statue extended one hand to Micah, knowing what she had just discovered, and pointed one finger, sharp like the blade of an obsidian knife, up towards the night sky.
Follow.
I will follow the path.
I WILL FIND THE MASTER.
Micah extended her mind towards the lone resonant strand. She did not pull at the filament, and instead climbed up it. Her mind's eye quickly ascended from the surface of the colony formerly known as Invictus, past the dense clouds of Neptune, and into the void of space.
The path extended beyond the Heliopause, and she eagerly left the comfort of her System in search of the one who had sent the Statue to their humble home.
She was beginning to realize the enormity of the Cosmos and how difficult her mission would prove to be, when the strand she held onto was suddenly yanked with an impossible speed which nearly broke Micah's psychic hold and sent her careening back to Neptune.
With all her might, she held on to the filament which she realized was being recalled to its point of origin, like a great ship pulling back its anchor from the depths of an ocean.
Yes.
Just hold on.
You will see it.
She was dragged through the entirety of the Milky Way Galaxy in a flash, and in that lone instant she was overwhelmed by the scale of life which resided within it. A cacophony of thoughts and sounds reverberated inside her mind, in languages she was incapable of understanding.
The arrival of the Adversary had made it very clear that Humanity was not alone in the universe, but the sheer number of civilizations which thrived in the galaxy was somewhat shocking to her.
But more importantly, she witnessed thousands upon thousands of strands like the one she was holding onto scattered throughout the galaxy, as bright and visible as explosions scattered over a giant metropolis. It was impossible for her to make out the enormity of the Milky Way by sight or psychic sense alone, but those points of black fulgor were easy for her to see and locate.
They made up an intricate mesh. A system. A machine.
Looking at the entirety of the galaxy from a top-down perspective, as she was dragged beyond its limits by the impossible speeds, the points she could detect and the way they were positioned resembled a map. And the bright strands were almost like…points of interest. Lighthouses, facilitating voyage. Without them, she would not be able to sense anything amidst the chaos of a vibrant and active galaxy. But she could focus on them each and more easily form a clear picture in her head.
And they were not alone.
She was able to briefly sense concentrations of Black Luster. Like the Statue that had been sent to her home, but far grander. They concentrated around certain areas of the galaxy made visible by the resonant strands, and Micah could sense their fury and fierceness. Ferocity that reminded her of the Triumvirate's soldiers and various petty wars raging back at Earth.
Sheer rage and vigor which could only come from one thing.
War.
As she was dragged, her curiosity led her to briefly sense into many of the resonant strands she could see.
She expanded her mind into the closest, and received a brief psychic echo.
A King commandeers his great ship. A cathedral of worship to the Master, and to the concept of triumph itself.
He sails through the void, proud at the helm of his vessel, a complex chart at this side. He traces the path through the abyss of screams with skill and satisfaction.
An enormous fleet awaits his signal. They will follow the path he has carved, for the King heads to conquest, eager to take what is his by right. Trophies and keepsakes proudly displayed, the ghostly legions are his and his alone, never to be relinquished.
She tapped into another one.
A man clad in red drops from atmospheric heights. His black blade held above his head, he accelerates to unbelievable speeds in the blink of an eye, Luster emanates from his towering body. The crimson meteor impacts the surface of the planet below, and the celestial body cracks in two. A civilization is dead.
And another one.
A titanic Knight, celebrant of the glory of war, marches at the head of an uncountable army. Her boots shake the earth. Her laughter crackles through the sky like lightning. Her voice is the Battle Song.
She throws herself at the jaws of the enemy, fearless, and each blow of her hammer hits with the force of a nuclear bomb.
The enemy annihilated, she sits in prayer, thankful for the revelry and the feast she has gorged herself with.
Micah was amazed. She did not know who these great individuals were, but they inspired her. They were clearly servants of the Master, wielding the gifts she was only beginning to understand herself with sheer skill that made her feel woefully inadequate in comparison.
But where her old self would have been dispirited by this inadequacy, her new self was encouraged. Motivated to reach these heights eventually.
And she was also starting to realize something else.
There was only one enemy which would demand warfare on this scale.
An enemy which had come uninvited to her home.
The Celestial.
Righteous anger flowed through her as she thought of Dad, lured astray by the gilded lies of the Adversary.
She was thankful the Master challenged the supposed divinity of this deceitful alien, and she was proud to be a part of this great system that had been crafted.
The Master waged war against the Adversary at a scale which she could hardly begin to comprehend.
And as she beheld the enormous web and system the Master had woven throughout the galaxy, another revelation struck Micah. She was no General, or had ever had experience with anything military, but she supposed that if she had to lead a conflict at such a titanic scale, she would need means of gathering information quickly and effectively.
The Statues were probes.
Of course!
They gathered information, and sent it back to the Master. Was that why the Statue had begun to move? Why the Antiphon had sounded and her psychic potential awakened?
She would find out soon, as she now saw that her strand, and all the others, led back to a single point. A magnificent and terrifyingly colossal concentration of Luster, located somewhere outside the Milky Way, amidst the empty space between galaxies.
Its source.
The Master.
The strand finally stopped moving, and Micah found herself face to face with Nothing.
Where a consciousness was something Micah could easily see and feel, what was in front of her was a yawning, endless abyss. A shadow the size of a planet. A hole forced upon the surface of reality.
She tried to listen to it, to understand, but it was like standing in front of Jupiter and trying to comprehend what every single one of its storms sounded like simultaneously.
It was impossible.
And she did not expect any less.
The Master was not for her to understand. The Master was only hers to serve.
She was a germ, and the Master was God.
Her heart was beating fast. She was excited, so excited to finally be here. She never thought that in her insignificant life would she ever witness something like this, or be in the presence of such grandeur.
She saw the strand she held onto reach the Great Nothing, and it absorbed it slowly.
Soon after, she heard a voice.
_- Ascendant One, the Traveler has revealed Herself.-_
A psychic of some kind spoke. Micah had been one for long enough to be able to tell that this individual was like her, but far, far more powerful.
It spoke with many voices. A woman's, a man's, a crowd's, a people's. The whispers slithered through her ears, her soul, and beckoned her closer, like the call of a siren.
:. Have the coordinates been isolated?.:
The voice crashed against her ears like the clap of a lightning strike landing beside her. She felt her body back on Neptune be affected by the psychic shockwave. Her nose started to bleed, and blood vessels in her eyes burst as the unfiltered might of the voice challenged her very existence.
The Master would only suffer the worthy, and His voice alone questioned her right to exist.
Someone lesser might have collapsed then and there, their heart giving out against the strain, but Micah was not lesser. She had earned the right to see the Master, and she would brave the storm. She grit her teeth, and commanded her body to not be feeble in the presence of Majesty.
_-We are afraid not. The Intercessor has been restrained in its approach, in lieu of the Celestial's presence. However, it is now active, and we should receive this information shortly.-_
Intercessor. That is what the Statue was called. A fitting name for a potent tool in the Master's arsenal.
:. Good. Appraise me when you have any developments.:
Micah was able to withstand the Master's voice with slightly more ease, as she was ready for its impact.
But the words alarmed her. The Master did not know yet where the Adversary was, and He was about to leave. Micah's chance to make herself known to the Master would be lost.
She had to act, and so she decided to provide the Master and His servant with what they wanted.
"The Solar System!"
She screamed as loud as she could, but her voice felt pitifully small in comparison to those of the entity and the Deity before her.
The Great Nothing paused.
Micah swallowed.
It moved, slowly, like a titan waking from a great slumber. It roused, and Micah felt an enormous pressure graze her mind. A finger held against a miniscule ant. She felt the Master's weight, the Master's power, ready itself to erase her with laughable, dispassionate ease.
Her legs buckled, her heart doubled the speed of its beat and threatened to go into arrest. Veins on her forehead bulged and her muscles cramped as her body instinctually reacted to the attention of God. She tasted blood in her mouth as the pressure threatened to crush her. Her flesh was weak. It was dying in the mere presence of divinity.
Unacceptable.
Her body screamed as it felt the enormous, incomprehensible, terrifying gaze of the Master fall on it. But her mind was clear.
This was what she wanted. She forced her body to obey and behave itself. She would not humiliate herself in the presence of the Master. She would not cower like a pathetic dreg. She was more.
At this, the Master seemed pleased, and eased His appraisal of her. She had passed a test, she was sure of it.
The psychic was the first to speak.
_-How curious. Who are you, child?-_
The crowd of voices which emanated from the entity swirled around her like thick smoke. Endless whispers accompanied the question, each eager to learn of her, each spouting revelation after revelation that she could not comprehend, even though she desperately wanted to.
"My name is of no consequence to the Majestic." began Micah. She was in the presence of divinities, and she would be humble before them.
"I am but a simple servant. My home has been invaded by the liar. The Adversary which calls itself the Traveler. Your Intercessor sang to me, and I listened. And when it came to life, I sang back."
The psychic continued after her answer. It seemed interested by what it heard.
_-Unfortunate that the Celestials seek to enslave one so young. One so full of life. Tell us, child without a name, how have you found yourself in our presence?-_
Micah knew that the psychic likely already knew how she was here. But she would be honest. She would not hide anything from the Master and His loyal servant.
"The Intercessor awoke something in me. A power, no, a gift that you have graciously provided to me. I beheld a psychic connection which emerged from the construct, and followed it until I found myself here."
"I wanted to speak to you. To know you. For only you can save my people, Master."
The psychic answered again. Micah was trying to speak to the Master, not the servant, but it seemed to speak for Him. Perhaps it was testing her.
Very well, she would follow the customs and rules the Master employed.
_-Delightful. For one so young, so inexperienced, to be capable of such a feat. Promise. Potential. We sense it. Let us nurture it.-_
Yes. Yes! This is what she had hoped for. This is what she wanted. The psychic seemed interested in her, and perhaps the Master was too!
:. Micah Abrams.:
The Master's voice felt like a bullet going through her. Her lungs threatened to collapse as He directed his words towards her. Her eyes were wide, she was breathing hard, but she did not buckle, even as her heart threatened yet again to stop beating.
:. You wish to serve. I accept your fealty. Tell me everything you know.:
The Master was direct. He did not waste words, and she instinctually kneeled as His command was issued. Unlike before, His voice did not threaten to kill her, but instead she now felt unbreakable loyalty. A wish, a compulsion, a need to serve which felt splendid.
"My people call themselves Humans. We were born on a planet we call Earth, inside a small area of the galaxy we refer to as the Solar System."
"The Traveler came to us not long ago. It brought technologies and knowledge far beyond anything we were capable of on our own. It turned our uninhabitable worlds into paradises. All to lure us into its grasp. All to sway our people to give into it. And when my people refused, it gave its powers, its 'Light' to a chosen few. They now wage war against our governments, and without your assistance, they will win that war and we will be in its thrall."
The Master pondered the information that was given to Him.
:. Standard pattern of behavior. The old ways will suffice.:
The psychic jumped in.
_-Ascendant One, we know of these Humans. They are a relatively primitive species. Sol is unknown by most key parties, and is considered a backwater of little interest by the very few who are aware of its existence. As such, coordinates are not readily available.-_
:. Is it possible to trace her consciousness back to its source? .:
_-In theory, but the matter is complicated by the nature of her arrival. She anchored herself to the signal emitted upon the Intercessor's activation. Were we to attempt to follow her back, we would lose the trace due to the vast distance that needs to be covered. The Intercessor will provide the precise coordinates eventually, and in the meantime, we have a suggestion that might be to your liking, Ascendant One.-_
There was silence as the psychic and the Master held a private conversation. Micah waited patiently, expectantly, and she was joyful at being of use to the Master. She would play a part in the freedom of her species. In the eradication of the liar. She was giddy, excited. She could never have believed her purpose would be this, but it felt right.
The Master's voice shook her out of her thoughts.
:. Micah Abrams.:
Yes, yes yes! She was ready. She was ready to be of service. She was ready to do anything that was asked of her if it meant protecting her people. If it meant saving Dad like she had done Papa.
:. I witness you. I behold your Shape, and find it lacking.:
She felt a great finger pierce her. It injected her with power she had scarce words to describe. A simple taste of what the Master wielded, but it was so far beyond anything she knew as possible. It eclipsed the feeble gifts of the so-called Guardians. It eclipsed anything the Triumvirate could ever achieve or produce.
:. There is a knife for you. It is shaped like [I am more].:
She felt her body breaking and rearranging itself back on Neptune. Like the planet, transformed by the Song, she herself was undergoing a more thorough and complete metamorphosis at the hands of the Master.
She felt her brain expand, her skull enlarging to accommodate the organ. She could now see the strands so much more clearly than before, and knew that her control over them had been magnified tenfold.
She felt the black Luster flow through her body, like the champion clad in red she had seen on her way here. Her eyes grew larger and turned pitch black, like that of a night predator. Her skin became pale, veins faintly visible through the snowy white surface, and her limbs and height elongated until she towered above anything that could be considered Human.
She was more.
She had evolved.
A perfect Human, guided by the hand of the Master.
Majestic.
:. You will protect the Intercessor. The warriors of the Light will come for it. For you. They will break against your will.:
She was ready. Ready to destroy anyone that opposed her. Ready to protect the Intercessor which would guide the Master to her people. Her people would be saved, Dad would be proud and be made to see. Her family would never come to harm.
They would be with her forever, serving the Master faithfully, as was their place. And she did not want anything else. She did not want the lies of the Traveler. The picturesque, fragile "paradises" which mocked her system, the "gifts" and advanced technologies which were nothing compared to what the Master offered.
The Master did not need to lie. The Master did not need to deceive. For the Master's victory was self-evident. Self-proving. As true and certain as the passage of time or the rising of the Sun in the morning. Inevitable. So why resist? Why settle for lies which would break against His might?
:. From now on, you will bear a new title.:
Her transformation was complete. She felt the raw power surge through her veins. She glowed in dark orange resonance, as her muscles became steel and her mind was honed to a sharp edge. She had received all that she needed to crush the Guardians when they came for her home. For her family.
In exchange, she had to serve. She had to succeed. And she would not fail the Master. Neptune would become a fortress. A bastion for the holy Intercessor within. She would bend the planet to her will. The Master would obtain what He sought. The Master would be shown the way to her home. And then, they would all be free.
Unshackled from the lies. Unshackled from the tyrants.
Only then, would Humanity achieve their true heights.
She had asked herself what shape Humanity would then take.
She now knew.
The shape was her.
:. Rise, Ambassador, and bear this gift with pride.:
TO BE CONTINUED IN CHAPTER XXIII | WAR
A/N: Been a while, this one took a bit to do between life, difficulties with some parts of this, and other projects. However, I am very happy with the result, and I hope everyone is as well. A very special thanks to King and Edumesh for their contributions to the chapter. There are a few more big things in store now that the war has properly begun.
Lightfall showcase was certainly interesting, and if you look closely, you may see we're already taking a few elements from it. I remain rather amused that the new location is Neptune given the events of the story, but I'm certainly not going to complain now that we're finally going to have an actual modern planet. Strand also appears to be an amazing subclass, all in all, looking forward to it.
I'd like to say I know when the next chapter will be, but sadly, I don't think it's a good idea to make predictions now. It will come out when it's ready, and until then, thank you all for reading.
- Xabiar
