Bzzt-13 could not remember what his life had been like before he had been interred within the formidable firing array and targeting nexus of the Onager Dunecrawler. There were some faint hints at a life of service as a loyal Skitarii Ranger, ever dutiful, marching to war. A short but brutal military campaign on a world that he did not know the name of, not that he had ever been expected to know. He had been wounded there, that much he could remember. His missing legs and parasitic life support unit that had been wielded to his open chest cavity was enough reminder of that.
He had awoken, interred and fused deep within the mechanical innards of the grand war machine. Some would have said that his fate was no better than that of a servitor-slave, a gun-thrall more weapon than soldier. Bzzt-13 did not appreciate such a description. He was part of the great weapon, as much as it was a part of him. The proud Neutron Laser, was an extension of him, and he counted himself blessed to be one with its bellicose machine spirit. He had long forgotten what it was like to look through eyes, bionic or organic. Instead, the world was fed to him through augur pict-vids and auspex readings. He saw more than any flesh and blood, or any lowly Skitarii Ranger.
Somewhere in the data-manifold he could feel the presence of another. He did not know his crewmate's name, nor was it of any use for him to. Names implied individuation, implied that somehow they were distinct. They were not. They were one, whole, in holy communion with the Machine Spirit of their host and frame. Bzzt-13 felt his crewmate guiding the steps of the Dunecrawler as one would feel another part of your body, if your body was a tremendous quadrupedal war construct armed to the teeth with devastating weaponry.
His thoughts wandered back to the events of the preceding hours. They had made landfall almost entirely unopposed, a novel experience in Bzzt-13's mind. His Dunecrawler warhost had been seconded to a rapidly advancing phalanx of Skitarii tasked with breaching the defenses of the city. With his Neutron Laser his Dunecrawler was a potent, devastating anti-armor weapon, carrying firepower that the lesser war-forms of the Skitarii would be hard-pressed to match. The lexmechanic had uploaded a codex of tact-data containing profiles of the enemy forces that the Legiones Skitarii had expected to face upon planetfall, and Bzzt had paid close attention to their supposed armor and tanks. A myriad of strange, blasphemous looking vehicles with rudimentary repulsor tech and strange energy weaponry that resembled lascannons, Bzzt-13 would have grown excited - if he had still been capable of such feelings - at the opportunity of destroying these perverse alien constructions.
They had encountered little initial resistance on the ground. The Skitarii and Sicarian killclades had swept all that stood in their path. Pathetic droid-thralls and robots with base programming proved little match for the forces of the Omnissiah, and Bzzt-13 had barely been called upon to fire his Neutron Laser. Its machine spirit grumbled and purred, neutronic arc reactor thrumming at a dull standby, reservoirs of free neutrons and photic energy whispering their desire to destroy. Bzzt allowed the weapon to cycle through its firing stages, feeling its pristine purity, an arrow in the hand of the Machine God, just aching to be released.
The auspex feed updated, tactical neural-interfaces and control links blinking. Binaric code blared through the noosphere, filling him with knowledge almost instantaneously. Around him, he could see and sense the movements of the accompanying maniple of Skitarii Rangers begin to spread out, many of them arming their galvanic rifles and plasma callivers. They moved with cold, calculated intent, finding cover, their fields of fire perfectly calculated and optimized for maximum coverage and overlapping potency.
His auspex feed bled red, and warning icons began to pop up as his targeting cogitator burst to life, targeting reticles and glyphs highlighting newly identified targets. There was no surge of adrenaline, no pulse of fear that could paralyze mortal, fleshy brains. No nervousness or combat jitters that plagued the ranks of organic soldiers. Only the calculus of battle played out through the noosphere as the servants of the Omnissiah opened fire.
The streets of Theed were alight with war. Explosions erupted through the picturesque and once-serene Capital. Streets lined with marble and with grand icons of nature and art now cracked and rolled, fractures and craters lining their ornate facades. Buildings, famous galaxy-wide for their heritage and age now lay in ruins as running firefights raged through their blasted remains.
All throughout the city, Skitarii forces advance inexorably, pushing back the Trade Federation's occupying army. The droid forces had been taken by surprise, completely unprepared to deal with this new foe. Their initial programming had prepared them for a bloodless, easy conflict against pacifists, and instead now they found themselves in a brutal engagement with a tactically proficient, lightning quick adversary that was ruthless in its strategic acumen. Droids had never been effective at thinking on their own, and with the situation so vastly beyond their initial parameters, any hope at organized resistance crumbled. Battle Droid Officers attempted to take charge, but with communications down with their central command aboard the Lucrehulks, they simply operated on their default strat-templates, relying on pre-programmed command routines. The perimeter around the palace collapsed within hours as the Trade Federation found itself hopelessly outgunned and outplanned.
Droids, however, do not surrender.
Eveh Tas held her children close to her, trying not to whimper in fear as another series of detonations shook the basement cellar that she was huddled in, the dull thuds and vibrations shaking dust loose from the dimly lit ceiling.
She had been in hiding for a week now. Her husband had left to join a hopeless resistance when the droids had come, and she had not heard from him since. She had locked herself into a basement cellar, with enough food to last for weeks, no doubt mirrored by dozens of families across Theed and Naboo. Thus far they had avoided discovery by the marauding droids that had occupied their home, but she struggled to keep her children contained. It was a tiny space, not fit for living, but she made do.
Each night she had prayed for the safe return of her husband, each night she had hoped that the nightmare situation would come to an end. Surely the Queen would find some solution, or the Galactic Senate would force the Federation to give up their occupation.
Hope had begun to spring in her heart when she heard the first sounds of battle above. It was the sound of liberation, surely someone had come to save Theed. And then the explosions began, unending, as if Theed was being shelled by artillery. The ground shook, so much dust falling from the ceiling it began to look like snow, coating her children and their meager bedrolls.
The sounds of battle above had been going for hours now, without pause and without lessening. The explosions grew nearer, as did the sound of blaster-fire and other more ominous, unknown weaponry. Eveh wrapped her cloak tighter around herself and her children, shushing them and soothing them as they looked about and up nervously, trepidation obvious on their little faces.
She heard muffled blaster fire, so close as to be almost atop their refuge, so intense in volume it made her hair stand. More explosions, the sounds of heavy weaponry blasting away and shields straining. Another thunderous detonation, and now cracks had begun to wriggle their way across the ceiling and walls, spiderweb fractures that spoke of tremendous impacts and stress being placed upon the structure they had hidden within.
The sounds of battle were growing frantic, and closer. Eveh knew nothing of battle, indeed, there were precious few amongst the Naboo who did, but she knew enough to surmise that the battle was raging almost directly above them. She thought of the quaint housing complex that she and her little family had made their home, the laughter and memories that still brought warmth to her heart, and she began to weep. Nothing would remain of her physical home, of that she was sure.
Another tremendous explosion quaked the earth around them, and dust falling from the ceiling became pebbles and stones. This was too loud, too near, and her youngest child screamed, ignoring his mother's desperate shushing. Blaster-fire, so near that it could have been outside the very entrance to the cellar, pulsed, intense and rapid. They were close enough that she could hear the cursed fake vocalizations of the droids now, muffled but still reaching her ears. She could not make out what they were saying.
And then it was silent. Eveh clamped a firm hand over her son's mouth, stifling his sobs. Her elder daughter, no more than eight, stared frightfully at her, large eyes glistening in the dim light.
"Take care of your brother, Love. Mummy will check out what's happened." She whispered. Her daughter shook her head, as if begging her to stay, but Eveh knew she had to go. The cellar was no longer safe, or fit for human habitation. The cracks and damage to the walls and ceilings threatened to bring down the whole structure, burying them alive. She had to get them out, even if it meant braving the outside world and the dangers that meant.
Eveh would risk it. Besides, whoever the liberators were, they had destroyed the Trade Federations droids. That meant they had to be friendly, or at the very least not hostile, right?
Hadron Zeta-0 was no stranger to battle. No Skitarii Alpha could be considered as such. Indeed, so little remained of his fleshly form that you would be hard pressed to guess that the cybernetic machine soldier had once been a flesh and blood infant, fed on nutrients and protein mesh, grown and neuro-indoctrinated like only an organic needed to be. Only a brain and a beating heart remained of that vat-grown fleshling now, encased and glorified by a body of holy machinery, bionics and cybernetics.
The Skitarii Alpha moved through the shattered husk of what had been an ornate, large hab-block. A warrior of the Legiones Skitarii as advanced and deeply augmented as he had no need for verbal or physical communication. His squad moved in perfect cohesion, responding to his noospheric orders like the searching fingers of a hand.
The Skitarii Marshal that commanded this phalanx of the Skitarii advance had issued clear orders to sweep the city, street by street, uprooting and annihilating the droid-thralls wherever they had dug in. His squad of Rangers had been tasked specifically to clear this particular stretch of hab-blocks, and they had done so with their characteristic efficiency.
The droid-thralls had proved unworthy foes of the Legiones Skitarii, Hadron Zeta-0 allowed that small part of his fleshly mind to ponder. They were disorganized, undisciplined, completely unlike the robot-constructs of the Legio Cybernetica, or the dauntless ranks of the Kataphron Battle Servitors.
And yet, there had been casualties amongst the Skitarii. There were enough reports of losses sustained and advances slowed by heavy resistance and the sheer volume of fire that the droid-thralls were able to lay down. It was true they were sloppy and ineffective soldiers, but there were enough of them to grind down Skitarii forces through sheer attrition. The energy blaster weapons they used were damaging, punching through warplate and carapace with little difficulty.
Five missing indicators in his tac-link were testament to that. The fighting down this particular street of hab-blocks had been particularly brutal, close to a company of droids had been entrenched, supported by armor, weapon emplacements and those strange scorpion heavy droids that carried shields that deflected rad-ammo and arc rifle electron blasts. Their supporting Onager Dunecrawler had absorbed the brunt of the fire, dispatching two of the xenos-tech grav tanks before being disabled by proton torpedoes from more foot soldiers. The venerable machine now stooped in the wide avenue leading to the hab-block, immobilized but still defiant, neutron laser dissecting hard targets that Hadron identified with his omnispex ocular implant. Even so, the sheer volume of fire and weight of bodies that the droid-thralls had been able to throw at his men had been undeniably effective, if not terribly wasteful.
Ahead, the lead Ranger paused, galvanic rifle raised. A quick burst of binaric flitted through the dusty hallway.
++ Alpha. Life signature detected. ++
++ Identify. ++ Hadron replied. No verbal command was given, but a simple nudge through the noopsheric command manifold was enough to transmit his will to his Skitarii units. The lead Ranger, Zeta-13 instantly moved through the doorway, rifle up, turning to sweep his blindspots without a hint of hesitation or fear. With preternatural coordination, Zeta-5 and Zeta-9 immediately swept up behind him, overlapping fields of fire in perfect unity, clearing the room.
Hadron advanced, the rest of his squad moving in concert around him. As he stepped through, his omnispex registered a life signature with elevated vitals shifting and moving behind the wall to his left. Instantly, three of his Skitarii moved, weapons glowing ominously.
The Marshal had been clear that the enemy possessed few organics within their ranks, if any, and that it was a distinct possibility that civilians still remained within the hab-complex and city at large. Even so, an Alpha as battle-hardened as Hadron would have never left anything to chance. He called up the translation program that had been distributed before planetfall, preparing to speak.
Eveh winced as she tiptoed through the hidden passage. Even her breaths came slowly, achingly. Fear gripped her heart, but was driven back by determination for her children. Her suspicions had been right, much of the house was in ruins, destroyed by explosions and blasterfire. The structure still stood, but much of it was blasted and burnt. It would take many weeks of hard work before the structure could be restored to a somewhat livable condition.
She heard the footsteps through the thin wall, the sound of metal boots grinding into plascrete dust and crunching through burned out flooring. At least a dozen soldiers were moving through her ruined home, and her heart sank even further. Sure, they weren't droids, and that was some relief, but she could not help the nagging feeling that Theed had given up one occupier for another.
She took another tepid step. The entrance to the hidden passage was concealed behind a decorative shelf, or at least, what remained of one. She just needed to -
"Step out or you will be terminated." A voice rang out through her home, harshly metallic, as if fed through a decade old speaker. She froze, heart hammering. Had they heard her?
"Comply, or you will be terminated." Again, the scratchy, static-filled voice rang out. Obviously, they were talking to her. She could not risk dying, not with her children still trapped beneath the surface in that death-trap of a cellar.
"I'm coming out! Please! Don't shoot me. I'm just a civilian!" She gathered her courage, calling out through the thin fake wall.
"Comply, or you will be terminated." Whoever it was inside her home repeated his demand, evidently unimpressed by her plea.
Gingerly, she opened the hidden entrance. The shelves, supposed to part elegantly to reveal the entrance, instead crumbled apart like ash and sand. She stepped out through the door, and it was only the shock of what greeted her that stopped her from screaming.
At least a dozen… cyborgs? Android constructs? She didn't have the words to describe the obviously menacing soldiers that had filled her home, or their esoteric, alien looking weaponry that glowed and pulsed with an eerie light.
They were bipedal, around the height of an average human each of them, but Eveh could not help but notice their machine-like builds and frames, all idiosyncratic, unique, but equal in the sheer level of augmentation. Of course, medical technology to replace limbs with robotic prosthetics were common in the wealthier echelons of galactic society, but this was not prosthesis… this was replacement, augmentation, almost synthesis with the artificial. She could not imagine why anybody would want to do that. Even the most technophilic of races in the galaxy refrained from such wholesale mutilation of their physical form.
One of the cyborgs in the middle of the room, cloaked in a red hood stepped forward. Glowing green eyes that looked more like futuristic lenses whirred and moved, focusing on her. She gulped, but gathered her courage all the same.
"I am Eveh Tas. I live here, and.. well…" She trailed off, suddenly unsure of what to say.
The cyborg that looked to be in charge did not respond, instead taking another step, drawing within touching distance. Eveh flinched back.
"Are you here to liberate Naboo? Have you come to defeat the Trade Federation?" She ventured.
The machine man simply continued to stare at her.
Hadron's contact protocols churned, computing and evaluating his course of action. His omnispex had scanned the non-combatant from head to toe, inside and out. She was outwardly human, showing no external deviancy or mutation. Undoubtedly closer genetic examinations would be made by the Magos Biologis aboard the Mars Eternal for genetic discrepancies, but the holy machine spirit of his omnispex had thus far revealed no taint of deviation from pure humanity.
Skitarii were not trained pacification or occupation forces. They were the crushing hammer of the Omnissiah and his will, bringing metal and death to those that would oppose the Machine God and the Quest for Knowledge. Tactical protocols and battle-indoctrination did not have much on what to do when faced with a terrified, helpless civilian. Mission parameters did allow some level of autonomy in problem-solving in the field, but deep within the augmented neuro-filaments of his once fleshy brain, Hadron supposed that this civilian was not a problem to be solved.
He briefly considered simply leaving the human civilian. There remained objectives to be secured, a mission to prosecute. He quickly discarded that option. The woman still posed a security risk. He would have to contact the Marshal.
++ Marshal Prime. Civilian encountered in Sector Theta-9-Ultima. ++
Noospheric communication zipped away into the data manifold. Two of his Rangers moved to secure the civilian, reaching out for her. He noted the terrified expression that came upon her, and the way she shied away. Truly, the flesh was weak.
"Please! No! My children are still in this building! I have to -" Her distressed wailing fell on metal ears.
Hadron felt the distinct sensation of sensorial-override, an odd feeling of needles prickling the back of his brain as his implants shuddered with the weight of a consciousness far greater than his own. It was normal for the Marshal to interface with Alphas out in the field, to assume direct control over situations that called for it. In this manner, the Legiones Skitarii were able to bypass the inefficiencies of flesh and blood command and control. This time, it was different, however. He was familiar with the Marshal's data-spirit, that warlike, focused presence. This sensation was nothing like that. It was overwhelming, heavy, ancient, like a some great archeoconstruct of Old Mars had settled upon his frontal cortex. Tendrils of cybertheurgy leaked through every shred of machine and man that made up Hadron Zeta-0, in an instant laying him bare before the eyes of something far greater than he. His senses, his actions, his very thoughts found themselves slaved to a will and mind that dominated unquestioningly, and brokered no resistance.
++ Archmagos Dominatus ++
Hadron did not permit his mechanical body to show the effect that it had on him. Vespasian himself had deemed fit to respond to his noospheric summon. Truly the great Tech-Priest was so completely in tune with his forces that even this lowly communique had found its way to his probing, searching ears. It was humbling, even to a war-scarred veteran Alpha as himself. He found his own conscience shunted to the back of his own brain, neuro-vaults straining to contain and manifest even such a fraction of his liege lord's immense will. A small part of him rejoiced, exulting. To be touched by an Archmagos was an honor beyond honors for a Skitarii, a divine appointment by the Machine God himself, and a step towards greater ascension in the Quest for Knowledge. It was only human to have such thoughts, after all.
Eveh struggled desperately, but found no purchase against the cold, metallic hands of the strange cyborg men. Red cloaked and unreadable, their faces masked by masks of metal and machine, they had wordlessly seized her, searching for weapons on her body.
She assumed the worst. They were as bad as the Trade Federation, she was a fool to believe that they would treat her more humanely. At least the droids had rounded up her people. These silent, machine men were inscrutable and unresponsive, failing to even respond non-verbally to her pleas.
"Please! My children are -" She cried out. There had always been tales of mothers, faced with imminent dangers to their children, performing superhuman feats of strength. There was no such miracle here. She pulled with all her strength against the restraining arms of her captors, only to feel nothing but pain. They did not give an inch.
The officer, or at least what she thought to be an officer, judging by his more ornate adornements and central position in the room suddenly froze, twitching, glitching. The other soldiers paused, seemingly snapping to attention as if someone had just entered the room.
"Eveh Tas."
Her name originated from the officer's face. Her attention drawn, she observed the vox-grill vibrating, projecting the words towards her.
"Eveh Tas." It repeated, as if tasting, savoring the sound of her name. The soldiers restraining her suddenly released her, and she slumped bonelessly to the ground, exhausted from her struggle.
"What do you want from Naboo? We are a peaceful people. We have nothing to offer you. Please, let me get my children." She begged, exhausted and angry.
"Retrieve your children. You will not be harmed. Follow." The officer spoke once more. She realized the eyes that had once been a sickly, emerald green had morphed to a crimson kaleidoscope, and she shuddered. Just making eye contact with that hurt her eyes and caused a pulsating headache, as if those eyes were seeing into her soul.
She did not see any other option other than to comply, and so she did.
Archmagos Explorator Dominatus Vespasian absently noted the completion of a minor tasking by one amongst the dozens of his subroutines sprawled across the noosphere and data manifold. Magos Vala had personally requested for several human specimens from the surface to interrogate and study. The Biologis sought to investigate the extent of genetic similarity between the humans of Naboo and true humanity, and Vespasian was willing to oblige. Such profound data would be valuable in the Quest for Knowledge, to expand their comprehension in this new universe.
He nodded with satisfaction. The Crusade had proceeded splendidly, requiring little direct intervention by his part. He had been content to allow the Skitarii and lesser Tech-Priest cohorts autonomy over the fulfillment of his mandates, and they had performed to an acceptable margin of error. Dominus Zamander was as skilled a commander as he was an avatar of annihilation on the battlefield.
Another subroutine re-melded with his primary thought-core, bringing with it another inflow of knowledge. The Black Templar had concluded their operations on the surface, and had exfiltrated with their Thunderhawk back to the Mars Eternal. They had brought with them this human political leader, Padme Amidala Naberrie. His subroutine had already digested and processed comprehensive data regarding the action on the surface and what had transpired. They would be arriving within ten standard minutes, confirmed by an auspex reading from the Mars Eternal that he plucked from the raging torrent of binaric data that filled the noosphere around him.
It took him twelve microseconds to weave a complex web of subroutines and slave-programs to continue monitoring and adjusting the course of the battle still raging in the streets of the city. Satisfied, he allowed his consciousness to travel through an umbilical mechadendrite interfacing with the Throne Mechanicum upon which his hulking mechanical frame still sat. Detaching himself, he raised to his full, imposing height, once more inhabiting the physical realm.
He briefly considered manifesting a more palatable, ambassadorial form with which to meet this native Queen. Diplomacy was not an entirely lost art to the Mechanicus, after all. He decided against it. He would meet this Queen in all his full imposing glory as High Lord of the Machine God's servants and impress upon her the course that the Omnissiah, in his omniscient wisdom, had decided for this Universe.
Padme fidgeted nervously with the makeshift harness that secured her tightly to the decidedly oversized seat. It was obviously designed for a being far, far larger than herself, evidently, one of the hulking, oversized warriors that sat beside her, as silent and still as a statue. Speaking of which, they were truly astoundingly bad conversationalists. She had attempted on several occasions to strike up a conversation with these Angels of Death, and yet on every attempt had been met with stone cold silence. Her tailbone still ached from the ride she had been forced to take on the shoulder of one of the colossal, obsidian soldiers.
As far as accommodations went, the ship was hardly luxury. It was spartan, obviously military-grade, a far cry from her comfortable, resplendent Nubian-class starship. It was so, so noisy. Everything shook and rumbled, and she could hardly hear herself over the din of those massive, crude but powerful engines. She had never seen such a pattern of starship in any galactic database, although she would hardly consider herself a savant on exotic crafts. And yet, she could not help but wonder just why this Blessed Humanity would ever need such a tremendously armored and outfitted ship. The armor was at least as thick as her torso, and the wicked looking, enormous weapons looked almost comical. More questions to pose to this Emperor of Man, she supposed.
Still, she couldn't help but smirk at two Jedi seated opposite her. Smug bastards, the lot of them, seeing them so unsettled gave her great enjoyment. They had insisted on following her, at the risk of bloodshed, she had finally relented and asked her new escorts to permit them. They hadn't answered her, of course, but the fact that the two Jedi weren't dead probably meant they had agreed to it. Obi-Wan was the more obviously disconcerted of the two, by the way his nervous eyes flickered all about the ship, and the way his legs wouldn't stop shaking. Qui-Gon's eyes were closed, the man seemingly meditating. Still, the creases along his face and furrowed brow were a far greater tell of his state of mind than anything Padme had observed thus far.
A loud pneumatic hiss burst through the cacophonic din of the shuttle, and the blast door at the front of the ship slid open to reveal the fifth member of their escort party. The huge warrior stepped through the open portal, striding forth fearlessly even as the ship continued to rock and shudder.
Padme again marveled at the sheer alien-ness in the design of her rescuer's armor. Up close, she could see the symbols and glyphs adorning each facet of their midnight armor. What could only be scrawls of writing wrapped around runes and icons, and what looked like wax seals and scrolls hanging from shoulders, belts, and thigh plates gave their appearance a frighteningly ritualistic and religious bent. The massive figure strode until it was before her, and its booming voice was loud enough that even amidst the roaring of engines, she could make out the words.
"We arrive in five minutes. Prepare yourself, the Archmagos himself has seen fit to allow you an audience."
Again, more alien titles and designations that she had utterly no context or hint at to even begin deciphering. Whoever these people were, they really had a terrible, terrible grasp on diplomacy.
"I don't know who that is. Is he important?" She yelled back, straining to be heard.
"Yes."
What a sordid bunch.
When the ship finally came to a stop, the massive ramp came down with a thunderous clang. Padme winced. That would ruin the flooring of any hangar. As the steam cleared, the first of her senses to report back to her harried brain was her sense of smell.
She almost gagged. A thick, cloying stench of machine hydraulics mixed with oil and… incense and a myriad of other strange, alien scents bombarded her senses. She released the harness, making her way gingerly down the ramp. The five warriors around her moved again in their freakishly graceful yet forceful manner, moving down the ramp with practiced familiarity.
She paused, taking in the sights. They were in space. She had surmised as much, considering how the ship had felt like it had been ascending for a good hour or so. The hangar that they were in was enormous. She felt like enormous was underselling it, and by quite a margin. The scale was baffling, really. This had to be some sort of space station, and yet obviously no such space station was in orbit around Naboo. She would've known if there was. The ceiling stretched away into the distance, shrouded in smog and thick clouds of both black exhaust fumes and white clouds of incense. Thick ribbed cabling ran across in all directions, some pulsating with an eerie light, others hissing steam and dripping liquids. All around her, machines and contraptions of every imaginable size, shape, and form moved in controlled chaos. It was too much to take in without getting a headache.
There were some common motifs, she did duly observe. A pattern to the iconography that dominated the walls, facades, and adornments around the gargantuan hangar. A cog? Some sort of gear like, cog with a skull in the middle was the dominant symbol, and it was everywhere. On ships, on machines, on walls, even on people. And the red! Everything was either a soulless, gunmetal gray and shades of burnished metal, or a red the color of dried blood. Shapes milled all around, many hooded and shrouded in cloaks of the same red. She could've sworn some looked more than human, tripedal or quadrupedal, and some even rolled on what looked like tank treads, but they were too far in the distance for her to be sure.
She glanced over at Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon. They too seemed stunned, drinking in the morbidly foreign sights.
She turned back to the warriors, only to see them already more than a dozen paces away, and rapidly leaving. Terrible manners, really. No way to treat a diplomatic delegation. She drew in a breath, ready to call out to them when a robotic clicking caught her attention. She swiveled, only for her words to die in her mouth.
It was… a dead human. That was the only way to describe it. A dead human that had been partially crucified, partially ingested, and totally amalgamated with a tracked machine. Its grotesque, morbid visage drew bile from her stomach. Eyes, or what were supposed to be eyes, glimmered like crystals that had been crammed into what were once eye sockets beneath that same cog symbol engraved unto a ashen pale forehead. Where its mouth was supposed to be was instead replaced by a horrific looking amplifier or speaker or some sort of auditory device that almost grew out of the skin and flesh of the wretch's face. Its skin all along its back and sides was perforated with numerous wires and cables that plugged into the machine below and she could not really tell where the dismembered torso ended and where the tracked machine began, so seamless and complete the corpse's integration was with the platform beneath it.
"Padme. Amidala. Queen. Follow." The thing… spoke? The tiny, distorted, disjointed voice emerged from that mutilated jaw-mouthpiece.
"I… by the stars…" She stammered, unsure what to say.
"Follow." The wretch insisted, before turning on the spot to lead her away. Padme could only close her mouth. She caught the Jedi's eyes, noting the same disgust and confusion on their pallid faces.
Well. Time to be a Queen then. She steeled herself, drawing up all the confidence she could, before following after the guide… thing.
Qui-Gon could not help the massive, throbbing headache that pummeled at his temples. What in the name of the Force was going on? It still felt like a surreal nightmare, but it was very much real. They had followed the armored squad of warriors with the Queen all the way out of the palace complex and into the city. The sounds of distant fighting had been fierce, and the droids around the actual palace itself had been reduced to mere pairs and trios, perfunctory sentries more than any armed occupation force. The strange beings had blown straight through them, and had moved at such speed that even the Jedi Master had found himself straining just to keep up with them.
They had arrived at what seemed to be their landing zone, and Qui-Gon was once again flabbergasted at the appearance of their starship. It was rugged, blocky, thickly armored, and just obscenely over-engineered. It was not of any design that Qui-Gon knew of in the galaxy. That was normal. For a Jedi Master as well traveled as Qui-Gon, ships of strange make were commonplace. Every planet, every people, had their own customs and eccentricities when it came to making transport craft. But this was different. It was not different externally, but conceptually, purposefully. Ships of any sort were built with design principles, and no matter how different they looked, their basic concepts and designs would be recognizable. This ship however, was simply alien. Alien in the sense that whoever had sat down to design the ship had sat down with a set of design principles and engineering objectives that simply were unheard of in Qui-Gon's galaxy. Or at least the parts that the Jedi were aware of. And that was most of it.
They had boarded the ship, and waited, but not for long before the fifth member of the squad had returned to them. It had been carrying the Sith Zabrak's lightsaber, and to that, Qui-Gon did not know whether to be worried or to be grateful. A dead Sith was a dead Sith, but a dead Sith slain at the hands of someone other than a Jedi implied that someone was capable of slaying Force-sensitives - meaning Jedi themselves. That was never, ever, a good thing in Qui-Gon's wizened mind.
He had attempted to speak to the fifth warrior, only to be promptly ignored, and for the ship to take off immediately. That had led them directly to this situation.
Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan trailed the Queen as they followed the strange looking corpse-construct through a winding maze of tunnels and hallways. He couldn't help but take in the sights and sounds around them, the alien stench of oil, lubricants, incense, and blood. Qui-Gon had caught sight of several more corpse-machines, some almost horrifically built into the very walls and contraptions that were rife across the station, some stumbling along and performing menial tasks all around. They weren't the only denizens they had encountered. Several red-robed and hooded individuals had swept past officiously without sparing them a glance, what looked like cybernetic soldiers following with parade drill discipline. Others - seemingly human, and yet always unsettlingly machine-like - had also been seen, and yet none of them had ever even shown a hint of acknowledgement to the odd party following an even odder guide.
They had been walking for what seemed to be an eternity, but gradually, the winding, grimy, dark hallways began to transition to more polished, cleaner, grander looking paths. They began to note golden or brass adornments decorating the walls and ceilings. The dirty, hissing pipes and cables receded, replaced by silent, elegant channels and connections. Carvings, paintings, altars, and other grand ornamentations peppered the now sweeping buttresses and crenellations. They were arriving at a far grander, official part of the station. Or wherever they were.
Their corpse-usher now looked hilariously out of place amidst the luxury and grandeur of their new environment - a dirty, piteous wretch in the shadow of opulence and splendor. Qui-Gon could not help but feel slightly agitated. If it truly had been a human, whatever process that had occurred to create such a construct was unethical at best, more likely criminal. The Galactic Senate and the Jedi Council would have to be informed. He would probably be ridiculed, all things considered. He wouldn't believe himself either.
A chamber opened up before them, and centrally, upon a raised dais, a grand looking table. It was brass and steel and all manners of unknown metals, furnished with beautiful mastercrafted artistry and adornments. Were those cherubs? Qui-Gon started. Metallic infants, complete with wings and brass masks flitted about, chattering unintelligibly yet musically. It was a ludicrous display, something one would expect from a bad spice-trip, but it was so very real. Qui-Gon did not catch himself fingering at the lightsaber hanging from his belt.
The corpse-cart-usher paused.
"Queen. Sit." It wiggled obscenely, seemingly gesturing at an ornate chair at the foot of the table. Qui-Gon could almost admire the courage the Queen was displaying in the face of such absurdity. She nodded, stiff-lipped, before stepping daintily towards the offered chair.
The two Jedi moved to stand behind her as she took a seat. The seat was a marvelous work of art- more akin to a throne than a piece of furniture. Even the ascetic Jedi could appreciate it. Its upholstery was fine, each part of it wrought with virtuosic craftsmanship, even if its design was alien, utterly unlike anything in the galaxy. Cogs and skulls in lurid abundance decorated the legs and back of the chair, an altogether unsettling display.
Across from them, a large, magnificent door opened, unfurling like the petals of some opulent metal flower. Through the doorway moved an enormous figure. If the armored giants that had rescued the Queen on the surface of Naboo had been large, this being was titanic. It was towering, over three meters in height. A magnificent red robe draped over its entire form, but Qui-Gon could not help but notice sections of the robe that bulged ominously. Qui-Gon swallowed carefully, glancing at the Queen.
Padme had not been expecting this.
Was everything on this god forsaken station so grotesque and inhuman? For a civilization that called themselves Blessed Humanity there sure wasn't much of that going on. Padme thought rather sullenly. Was this the Emperor of Man, then? Such a hideous looking… droid?
She could not really find the words to describe it, even as it drew closer to the table. It was enormous, that was for sure, and was shaped vaguely like a human. The same way a lion and a housecat were both felines, that is. Its head was barely a head, large, bulbous, almost insectile in form. A half dozen lenses and optical sensors moved independently, unsettlingly. She could not make out a nose, or a mouth, or any sort of vocal apparatus really, instead only more alien looking machinery. The rest of the figure was shrouded by that damnable red cloak, and yet as it approached, the shifting folds of fabric revealed more monstrous machine armatures and appendages underneath, shifting masses of supple machinery that flowed almost organically. More tendrils extended from the creature's back and sides, each one also operating independently. Around the creature's frame, more cherubs danced and orbited, accompanied now by what looked like… skulls? Literal skulls fitted with machine augments and some sort of repulsor tech, floating along morbidly, eyes glowing crimson. Padme wanted to vomit.
The droid-construct-man-thing came to a rest at the head of the table, still towering above Padme and her accompanying Jedi - that she had frankly forgotten were even there in the face of such an abomination. One of the tendrils suddenly snapped across the length of the table, faster than Padme or her Jedi could react. It came to a stop just centimeters from Padme's face. She was quite proud of the fact that she did not flinch. It opened up, like some disgusting metal orchid, and from its open tip, it projected a hologram.
It was her? Padme started. Her message! It began playing her final message that she had recorded just as the Nemodians had captured her, her desperate plea for aid. So they had responded to her request for assistance, it seemed.
She opened her mouth to speak, and was interrupted. She hated being interrupted, really.
"You are Queen Amidala." It was a statement, not so much a question. The Queen of Naboo straightened her back, salvaging her - admittedly bruised - composure.
"I am. Queen Padme Amidala Naberrie, of the Royal House of Naboo, to be exact. Are you the Emperor of Man?" She asked politely, coming to her feet and curtseying as her mother had taught her years ago.
There was silence. Then a strange series of noises.
Was it choking?
A/N
Hi all. Funnily enough, this fic was birthed by a flash of inspiration that came upon me as I was painting a Tech-Priest model for the table top. I started writing - and here we are, strangely enough.
I decided to take some time to pen down some of my actual more meta-thoughts regarding the fic. I actually haven't taken much time to sit down and meticulously plan out the story and plot and what every character is going to experience or go through. Much like George Martin I find that for this Fic in particular I have taken the Gardener approach - simply sowing seeds and crafting characters and seeing where the story takes them. I just hope that I don't sow too many seeds haha.
Of course I do have some major plot "directions" in mind, and some general conceptual issues/themes that I would want to explore and expound upon as the story progresses - but I will appreciate suggestions or just what you guys hope to see in this Fic.
As always, leave a review and follow if you've been enjoying the ride thus far!