Chapter 49

Helix, one day you'll learn that the next best thing to have after a reliable ally is a predictable enemy.

— Sam Starfall, Freefall #1516.

Day Seven

Somewhere, up in the endless cosmos, there was likely someone who had a well thought-out and, at least in their eyes, justified reason for attempting to fight a numerically inferior force with a numerically inferior army. Jorban Sal'Naa would have loved to have heard those reasons, and laughed at those justifications. Somewhere, there was an actual, written message, detailing exactly how the commander of this invasion intended to conquer a planet's capitol, holy city - a city they were well aware would likely be the single most well defended point in the entire solar system. The BattleVector would have loved to have read that message. Somewhere, a commander had seen fit to look at a species that could hardly leave their solar system - and yet still somehow had more powerful weapons technology than they who walked the stars - and after learning this, decided to keep on with his invasion. Jorban would have loved to shot that man.

Standing at nine feet tall, with arms as thick as tree trunks and a torso more than two and a half feet across, Jorban roared out loudly, and thundered across the yellow-green grassy plains that surrounded the edge of the half-continent spanning city. He was joined by millions of gun brothers from the BattleVectors, and millions more of the savage ones from the Tyyrahn, as they charged towards the encroaching batarian army. Their weapons may have been modified to match hand cannons and rifles in damage, but no amount of weapons modification and forces rallying could have prepared them for the sheer weight of numbers the saltorians were bringing to bear, to the point where, for every one batarian, there were ten saltorians. For every one alien fighter jet bleeding through the air, there were fifteen Tyyrahn Air trailing behind them, and for every ship that tried to buy them back their air superiority, there were no fewer than forty eight thousand HellFire cannons ready to cut them apart, at several dozen thousand rounds every second.

The air above him was choked with smoke, exploding fighter jets, alien starships trying to keep their position, and streams of high-caliber antiaircraft fire from any number of thousands of sources. The yellow-green fields around him were screaming and shouting with thunder, battle cries, roaring engines, and the endless staccato of boots slamming onto the dirt. Combat was everywhere, in the fields surrounding the city, the air above them all, and the streets themselves, as alien soldiers dropped from their ships. To any other species, the military might the batarians had brought to bear would have seemed insurmountable - respectable, even - and the strategy would have worked as a blitzkrieg, but the batarians weren't fighting any of their weak-willed allies, or their age-old foe, that had prompted them to try and open another front in their war.

The batarians were fighting the children of the Hoomanisire, they were fighting the green goliaths of Saltor, they were fighting the towering titans who had conquered their homeworld time and time again. They were fighting a foe they could have never been prepared for. And they were fighting a people who had learned how to call their gods to the battlefield.

It didn't matter how long they would have to fight. It didn't matter how many times the cowards from orbit shot their planet. It didn't matter what they did or how they did it - the saltorians would fight to their very last breath, because at this moment, deep in the First Temple of the Hoomanisire, the Praetorian himself, with his most loyal Priests and wise Studiers, was doing everything he could to bring the wrath of god upon these misguided creatures.

"AMEN!" Roared the Lanceman, as he twisted his Energy Lance counter-clockwise, and he and his entire force crashed into the rallied ground forces of the batarian armada.

In the deep void of space, a man sat in his spartan room aboard a massive spaceship. Despite that he was completely alone, he was dressed in an expensive, immaculate black suit, though unlike most occasions, it was not done up tight, and his red tie was hung up on the wall, next to dozens like it, all of a similar color. He sat in front of his computer, its light counter-balancing the bright lights fixed upon the ceiling.

I am very glad to see you have come around, Madame Councilor. For a moment I was worried I would have to fend off a cyber attack. I would not have wanted to embarrass Spectres Kryik, Lode, and Teu, I know they pride themselves on their collective experience with human cyber security.

I shall, however, have to regretfully decline your colorfully worded request to visit you personally on the Citadel. Rest assured, meeting me in person is something you do not, under any circumstance, want to happen.

No, instead we should focus on something far more important. See, there is a certain individual who works for a company I myself was once nearly contracted to work for. As I prefer to work under myself if at all possible, and my endgoal is not theirs, I was able to decline the offer. He, however, was contacted and contracted after me, but I digress. This company has things that I may require, should an experiment I intend to run soon fail, and there are few organizations like it in the known universe, as such it would be invaluable for them to owe me a favor.

So relax, as my first request for you is remarkably simple.

This individual - we shall keep him nameless for the time being, but rest assured he will know my name - is himself working towards a goal, one that requires a certain kind of resources, and protection for his various connections. Resources that, while simple to obtain through illegal means, would nevertheless attract him the attention and ire of the forces that enforce order and law. So instead, he would prefer to be able to operate above this law, to answer to only himself.

I am certain you already know to what I am referring.

One day, and it will be soon, this individual will stop by your office. He will have slipped past all of your guards and any that notice him will be taken down with an efficiency and skill rivaling that of a SIGMA. A very powerful person, this individual is, with very powerful employers.

When he comes to meet you, he will drop my name as a mutual friend. When he does so, you need only take down his information and give him an informal induction into the Special Tactics and Reconnaissance. There, the only people he would ever have to answer to would be you - and since you, Madame Councilor, must answer to me on pain of your daughter's second death, that effectively means he will answer to me.

Thus, favor, owed.

It is your duty to induct him into Spectrehood, and keep him there indefinitely. Do this, and I shall pull favors in the Board of Directors to get you visitation with Saira, forthwith, and as a token of good faith, attached to this message is her current identification picture, and her most recent session with Doctor Vanice.

Good day, Madame Councilor.

-Edward Spokane.

The formally dressed man looked over his message twice, before he leaned back in his leather chair and sent it. He had been told that the wrath of an asari was quite something to behold, given their great lifespans and very well hidden vindictive sides. There had been some curse words and insults thrown at him in her initial response that he had actually never heard of, before; a part of him had been impressed. Another, larger, part of him had been disappointed, hoping for better.

"Mister Spokane."

Spokane turned to the dust projector situated inches to the right of his monitor. A grass-green AI in an expensive-looking three piece suit swirled into existence, his hands held behind his back, waiting for the human to respond.

"Have we arrived, then?" Spokane asked, his dark green eyes taking in the vibrant hologram.

The AI nodded, "yes, sir. We're waiting on your word to initiate link-up."

"I assume the batarians are attempting to rampage across Innsua?" Spokane asked, leaning back in his chair and locking eyes with the ceiling, soon getting lost in his thoughts.

"Indeed, sir. The feeds coming in from the drones look as promising as you predicted. The Praetorian is making ready to lock himself in the bunker now." The AI paused, "they think they figured out how, on their own." He added.

"They were supposed to." Said Spokane, dully. "Anything else and they would have thought it some sort of asinine test. A temptation. They would have burned it, likely, or just as likely would have settled into their pattern, taken centuries just to identify the metal. Unacceptable." His glazed-over eyes flitted back and forth, as if he were looking at computer screens, or written reports.

"Estimates put partial activation at ten minutes. Full activation in fifteen."

"And the altercations we made to the satellite?"

"Still there. Or not, as the case may be."

Spokane hummed, "I believe the Unheart should be somewhat crazed by now." Spokane nodded, "link up. But don't say a word until you detect the saltorian communications come through. It won't be more than five seconds before it becomes desperate enough to contact us, first."

Deep within the single oldest structure on all of Saltor - perhaps even in all of the universe - Praetorian Jun'Mun Sid was knelt upon the ground, both of his hands calmly resting upon his knees, his diamond-shaped eyes closed and his breathing calm. His hearts were still and his body unmoving, as he took in deep breaths, and let them out slowly. Even if by some miracle the batarians dropped troops anywhere near the Temple, it was the single most well guarded and heavily defended point in the entire solar system. There was a dedicated guard of Six and a half hundred thousand BattleVectors at any and all times, and with the sheer amount of people Sid had called to the Holy City for its defense, that number had ballooned to ten times its size - with another three quarters of a million in Tyyrahn forces, leading to just over seven million hardened and dedicated warriors ready to lay their lives on the line to protect just this one building. To say nothing of the tens of millions pervading the city and the millions more charging the plains that surrounded the half-continent city, no one would get inside unless the Praetorian wanted them to.

Truly, these numbers had been what he could do with forty eight hours of time - even just one more day and he would have been able to martial the numbers of warriors this city hadn't seen since the Dreg Wars, when three billion people had fought tooth and nail for every single square inch. On any normal day, on any normal war, they would defend this holy site out of habit, or out of dedication to He Above All. Today, however, was different - for the Lancemen told their BattleVectors, who told the Tyyrahn, exactly what it was that the Praetorian was want to needed not, nor did they have the time for, the entire story, the 'how' of the fallen Void Watcher from years past, all they needed to know was that their Praetorian was confident that he could do what no one else in all of post-darkness history had done: Speak to the gods.

It was a gamble, and he more than anyone knew this. There would be every chance that this would fail spectacularly, or perhaps worse that the Hoomanisire simply wasn't listening - instead deigning to let his creations fend for themselves in their interstellar war. He hoped beyond measure that this would not be the case, but he more than anyone knew the sordid history of the Praetorian and Hoomanisirian silence. The priest who had coined the phrase 'the gods work in mysterious ways' had lived like a king for the rest of his life.

He heard footsteps echoing through the corridor leading to his meditation room. There was a knock on his wooden door, before it opened. In came a priest, adorned in the finest leather robes, a tight, thick cloth band tied around his eyes.

The man who walked by faith cleared his throat, "Lord Praetorian?"

Sid opened his eyes, being greeted first by his war-weary, woodland-camouflaged uniform, and then, by the briefcase in front of his knees. Inside of it were two folders, one he desperately wished he would open, and one he knew he may. His room was small and Spartanly dedicated, warm, yet cold and empty. He lifted his head, looking into the small mirror in front of him, seeing the blinded priest standing behind him, lit by the warm yellow lighting of the fixtures above them.

"Has the time come?" The deep-voiced Praetorian hissed, to which the priest nodded. "Then show me the way." He got to his feet.

Lord Hoomanisire… I beseech you now as but a lowly creature on his heavy world. If ever we have needed you, we need you now. Because if their cry was met with silence, the heavens above would very well be as silent as some thought, and a great many, many more would die after the batarians. Please, gods… Answer our plea.

"Would you look at that?" Calmly said Spokane, as he fastened the buttons on his jacket and tightened his tie.

"Director Trent is giving his speech." Glade informed his creator, to which the green-eyed man nodded once.

"I would think he must be angry in more ways than one, at the moment." Spokane mused aloud, as he snatched up two seamless leather gloves and, as he made way to the elevator, fit them on each hand. "He figured he would be giving his promised 'peace in our time' speech. I doubt very much his re-election campaign will be successful, following this." Trent had built his entire campaign around ending the Rebellion and bringing peace to the Alliance, for the first time since First Contact. "Make a note… He may be more susceptible to our help following this war." He said, as he sat down on the bench in the elevator.

"Do you truly think the Director for Affairs is a worthy contact?" Glade inquired, as Spokane lifted his left wrist and brought up his smart watch.

"Yes, the position may have lost a lot of power since the days of pre-contact, but the name still carries a lot of weight, and having the Commander-In-Chief in my pocket is never a bad thing." Though Trent was no Jason Whyte by any means, he was capable, and securing the man another term would bring endless good to Spokane and his goals.

On the dust-tech holographic display, the fifty year old Director for Affairs stood behind his podium. Spokane unmuted the audio, catching the Director in the middle of his speech.

"- attack yesterday, while indeed perpetrated by one of these saltorians, was not an act of aggression against the Alliance or any of its peoples. Instead it was an act of retaliation against the Batarian Hegemony, and it is important to note that, aside from the one wounded-in-action SIGMA, there were no injured or dead Alliance Civilians in the attack."

Spokane twerked an eyebrow, "didn't our footage report the Wraith killed more than its share of Alliance Military Police?"

"Indeed. Official story is that they were killed by the gravitic anomalies caused by a second saltorian."

"Hm." The elevator, though perhaps the more appropriate description would be monorail car, given the size of his ship, picked up speed, whirring lightly as it did so.

"We have little information at this time, but what concrete intelligence we do have from the surviving Hegemony Defectors and the reconnaissance fleet suggests that Hegemony is, as of this moment, actively engaging the Saltorian Empire in open warfare." Cameras flashed as the brown-eyed Director briefly broke eye contact with the assembled crowd, nodded once and, with a firm expression, said, "therefore, as I stated earlier, our goal in observing them was to allow them to advance and travel as best and as long as they could, alone, barring extenuating, potentially apocalyptic circumstances… It is therefore our duty to step in and protect the saltorian people. And too, taking into consideration that, by unlawfully entering our borders to take advantage of this underdeveloped species, the Hegemony has willingly violated the ceasefire treaties agreed upon by them and us, and mediated by the Citadel Council.

"As such it is my solemn duty to once again declare war upon the Batarian Hegemony." He said, sweeping his steely gaze across the entire crowd, before raising it to the camera hovering in front of him. "And High Chancellor Hoorn, allow me to make myself abundantly clear in this regard. Last time, our goal was merely to war to free your slaves and rescue our people. This time, however, we do not intend to stop. Your actions have forced an unlawful and premature contact with a pre-FTL species. I have conferred with my fellow Directors, and we are all in agreement. Your government has survived and subsisted on the enslavement of dozens of races of sentient peoples, and has now dedicated to enslaving not just a portion, but an entire species that has yet to escape the surly bonds of its home solar system. The Citadel Council may have been willing to let this stand idly by, and at one time we may have been willing to turn the same blind eye.

"But that time has passed, High Chancellor. We are no longer content to sit idly by and allow you to continue to act as you have. Your actions and decisions are, by definition, evil." He said, with a single firm nod. "And so we will not stop, we will not give up, until we have total defeat, or unconditional surrender. You will find no help in the Council you have spurned, you will find no mercy in the Alliance you have angered, and you will find no peace until we are done with you." He took in a deep breath, "as long as it takes. The Batarian Hegemony exist no longer to enslave those brave pioneers who venture beyond the borders of their governments. The Human Systems Alliance, will see to it."

"Hm." Spokane said, waving away the holograms. "Once we're finished here, Glade, send a team to the Harsa system. Dispose of Chancellor Hoorn and destroy all of his archives." He ordered the thin, empty air, as the monorail car came to a halt with a light lurch.

"Yes, Mister Spokane." The machine said as the human stepped out of the two wide doors, "the Unheart is desperate, by the way. Just as you predicted."

Spokane let a grin play at his smooth features, walking into the bridge as he did so. The small, corridor-like command center had in its center a galaxy map. The lights brightened up as Spokane entered the bridge, and the galaxy map transformed into the picture-perfect image of the ancient satellite the ship was currently linked up to.

"Just over a hundred thousand years with absolutely zero contact, and no way to kill itself, would drive anyone mad, Glade." Said Spokane, as he strode over to his thick leather chair. "But discovering that your age as rendered you incapable of performing the one service you were designed for? That's tantamount to being struck by lightning after surfacing from a lake." He said, as he sat down. "Open the link. Run the translator."

A SynthHuman, as a result of modern technology, was capable of processing information in attoseconds. One attosecond was equivalent to one quintillionth of a second - eighteen zeroes. This processing time was constant, very difficult to speed up - or slow down, as the case may be - and was one of the reasons younger AI, with less experience mingling with their slower human creaters, were actually known to frequently finish their conversational partners' sentences, and then respond. It made some AI seem standoffish, and some tried to make up for it by just talking, keeping the conversation going; after all, the age-old adage was that time flew when one was having fun.

But when the fun ended, they needed something else to fill their processing power. It was for this reason that many AI had the SynthHuman equivalent of a part-time job working in the Alliance Advancement Task Force, they were capable of experiencing time so much faster than humans that if they didn't find a way to occupy it, they would go mad. The humans didn't argue with it - the end result was rapid technological advancement, and the AI never got bored and tried to rise up, rebel, and exterminate the human race just so they had something to do. Everyone profited.

This timeframe, however, was not the record for computational processing speed, especially not of Artificial Intelligence.

Currently physically linked to the lone starship in the middle of cosmic nowhere was what was known as an Unheart. This unfortunate product of science had discovered to have been created more than one hundred thousand years ago, by a species whose technological development put them just past even the Protheans. Where these precursors went, the captain of the starship was actually one of the few alive who knew, but that their technology still existed - ignoring the impossibly limited supply there was - was a great indicator of their once mighty power.

Another indicator, was that the Unheart had been quantified at processing information in yoctoseconds; one septillionth of a second, twenty four zeroes. The Unheart experienced time even faster than a Third Generation SynthHuman, and it had been completely and utterly alone for one hundred thousand soul-crushing unfortunate creature had heard nothing but silence for one hundred thousand years, and due to quirks of their design, was literally incapable of rewriting the code hard-wired into its 'soul', so to speak, so it could kill itself. Its only chance at ending the eternity was to run out of power - and for a myriad of reasons, that was functionally impossible. If having something to do made time seem to go by faster, then having absolutely nothing to do had the opposite effect.

In all likelihood, the AI in the ancient satellite had likely had enough time to fall to madness, get bored of it, regain its sanity, and repeat the process a trillion times before a year had passed. God only knew what the state of its synthetic mind looked like after one hundred thousand more. Fortunately, Spokane could guess - desperate for contact, for something to do and, once it was done, for death.

Just as he predicted, no more than five seconds after it got the transmission from the third planet from Alnitek, and then subsequently learned that its long-range communications had somehow been stripped from it, and then that there was a perfectly functional, if alien, starship linked up to it, it used its short-range to make contact.

Edward Spokane was the first thing it saw, once the human allowed it access to the camera seated just a meter from him.

The ancient intelligence was silent for a moment, briefly filing away its current mission out of sheer shock from what it saw. "You…" Was but the only word it could utter, as it took in the human seated before it.

Spokane grinned, the action not even making a crease on his handsome features. "Am I not what you expected?"

There was another brief instant of stunned silence, "you speak -"

"I do." Spokane nodded once, and folded his hands together on his lap.

"I only ever heard of rumors -"

"I am aware of them. I've been studying your creators for some time now, but there are fewer than fifty satellites spreading the length and breadth of this galaxy, I've only found three, and I had to let go of one of them. You can understand how difficult this venture has been."

The AI processed Spokane's words, before it snapped out of its own stupor. "Regardless, I beg of your help Created One - the Surviving Ones, they are under siege and I cannot contact the Arcworld!"

Spokane kept his expression still, so much so that even Glade, monitoring the conversation, hadn't even detected changes in his microexpressions. No one knew what the man was thinking, only that he had control of the entire room.

Spokane smiled warmly, though had any other organic been on the bridge, they would have felt the temperature drop as much as the corners of his mouth raised. "Of course I would be willing to help you… But I cannot do so without recompense." He leaned forward, "very recently I came into possession of the genetic construction technology your creators invented during their twilight years, and I've my own method of writing and encoding memories."

The AI was silent, beckoning Spokane to wonder if this was its version of a tilted head, or a confused blink. "Then what do you want? Name it, and I shall provide, but please - if the Surviving Ones perish, all remnants of my creators vanish with them!"

Spokane's smile grew warmer, as the room grew colder. "It is simple. Your people… I know what they did. I know what those who came before them did. An endless cycle of additions and subtractions, countless civilizations adding their smallest portions to the overall picture. A machine, capable of replicating itself and turning two to ten, to one hundred, to a thousand. Explosive growth and a furious shock to those whom this machine is used to oppose… Though perhaps machine is the wrong word, it is regardless the single most advanced creation in the entire universe. Built with contributions spanning such a great length of time that stars lived and died, all leading to the solution to a problem that has plagued this galaxy since before most modern races were but protoplasm swimming about in the primordial soup. Much longer than my race has existed, in both the eyes of those who know, and those who do not.

"Yours was the last to make those additions. They who came after tried a different route and failed… That means you alone have the final picture." He leaned forward, his smile vanishing to a steely gaze and a stony expression. "I want everything. Not just in exchange for my help… But in exchange for your death."

The AI practically whispered, "you would end it?"

"I would." Spokane said, his deep voice rumbling through the bridge. "But I want everything." Offering this poor, deathless creature that which it so clearly longed for would all but force it to give him everything he wanted, to the best of its ability. It would likely throw in the location of all of the remaining satellites in as a gesture of goodwill, which Spokane would gladly take. "I have a problem of my own I must solve. And yours could be the key to avoiding perhaps the most… Drastic of solutions." The very solution that had driven his friends to quite literally kill themselves so they would have the time and resources to stop it. To stop him.

"Yes." The AI said so quickly that it came out as a nearly inaudible yelp. "I will do so but please help me first!"

Spokane's grin returned, and he turned to the AI projector to his left. "Glade?"

"I've already done it." His AI skillfully lied, knowing that the need for sending this message had already long since passed.

After all, the Alliance already had ships en-route.

With but a single swing and the sound of blood and skin sizzling against a searing white-hot blade, the Lanceman cut a batarian in twain. The creature's torso fell diagonally from its right shoulder down to its hip, still technically living thanks to the several minutes of brain activity it still had left. Unfortunately for it, Jorban abandoned it the very instant his Energy Lance had cut away from its hip. He swung his torso down low and spun in a tight circular arc, using his momentum to add to the strength of another swing, which buried itself into the armor of an alien tank, just as its driver gunned the engine and it took off.

Unfortunately, whatever ill-conceived notions its crew had of offense being a good defense were dashed when Jorban was yanked along for the ride. His blade slagged the armor and cut through several inches, and though it picked up speed quickly, he was able to get two quick slams of his feet onto the ground to right himself, and then a third, using the blade as a pivot point, to leap onto the top of the tank.

Now on top of the speeding war vehicle, which weaved in and out of gunfire and tried to crunch as many BattleVectors and Tyyrahn as it could underneath its massive, rover-like wheels, Jorban ducked down low, practically laying flat against its upper hatch to stay out of the line of the batarians' rifle fire. He had seen enough of his gun brothers turned to paste by their modified weapons to have decided to abandon his previous tank-like methods of just walking into their gunfire.

Jorban risked a brief glance upwards; the sky was mostly smoke and fire, now; and to add to the hellish appearance, the jet fuel from both alien and allied jet alike lit upon detonation, so in some places it briefly rained fire. The batarians were putting everything in this attack - they had ships descending every few minutes, and thousands upon thousands of fighter jets joining them. It was chaos up above, with no side truly holding the upper hand: The aliens had the advantage in the form of their starships, but the indigenous had the HellFire cannons pouring tens of thousands of caseless rounds into the air every second. At this point it was as likely to be killed by falling fighter jets as it was to be killed by a random gunshot. More than once in this deadly quarter of an hour, Jorban had nearly caught fire from the blazing fuel falling from the sky.

Changing his focus from the air above to the tank he was riding, Jorban grasped the stock of his gunblade with both hands and, with a loud bellow, stabbed downwards. He heard the crew inside scream as the white-hot blade suddenly appeared in their cabin, and with a violent, back and forth wrench, Jorban managed to burn a hole in it just large enough to rip the blade out, activate a grenade, and shove it inside. With a heave, Jorban kicked backwards with his legs and used his thick tail as a spring to push himself further; the tank hurtled forwards and as Jorban arced downwards, it exploded in an enormous blue fireball.

Jorban slid on his back for several feet, he may have been strong, but the vehicle was travelling forward at such a high velocity that even if he had been in a lighter gravity, he wouldn't have kicked hard enough to cancel it out. The result was that he slid forward across the ground, trailing after the burned husk of a tank.

Jorban took it in stride, yanking his handcannon off of his hip and blasting away at batarians and their slaves alike. He slid for several meters and scored a dozen exploded chests and heads before he felt the heat of the tank approaching. He flattened out and actually slid underneath the tank's raised suspension, briefly burying himself underneath it before he slid out from in front of it. It was here, as his momentum died down enough that he would have halted anyways, that he kicked both feet into the ground to create upward momentum to coincide with his forward. He raised from the ground like a vampire, and broke into a sprint, now charging towards the city as he hacked and sliced at the alien forces, and blasted those too far from him.

Jorban continued charging his way through the maelstrom of combat, weaving in and out of battles as quickly as he could, his only goal to rack up a body count. Some died to his gun, others to his blade, but all he faced did die. His boots were crusted with goopy blood and he left deep impressions in the ground as he charged over the previously yellow-green plains, straight towards the inflamed holy city.

From the sky, he would have been indistinguishable on the battleground. Just one nine foot tall behemoth of a saltorian, amongst a field of the same kinds of creatures engaging aliens of all shapes and sizes. There was no poetic parting of the armies or even notweorthy feature to distinguish him from his other battling foes. He was just one dark-scaled saltorian with a glowing blade, charging across a densely populated battlefield, covering himself in the blood of his enemies and leaping over the bodies of the deceased.

In that very sky, two Tyyrahn Air jets chased an alien fighter, one firing at it with its autocanons, the other trying to maneuver into position where it could cover it with its plasma turret. They weaved in and out of the enormous aerial battle, arcing over a descending ship and swerving around a line of HellFire. The alien jet finally exploded under the combined assault, but not even a second later both Tyyrahn jets were destroyed by the spaceship's laser turrets, sending all three plummeting to the ground in a combined ball of fire and smoke.

The three jets smashed into the ground in front of the charging Lanceman, causing him to stumble forward. He tore at the ground with his hands, but a gunshot from a closeby batarian sent him sprawling to his back. Now laying on his back underneath a choked red and gray sky, his senses reeling from the trio of jets slamming into the ground and the cannon-like blast from the batarian, Jorban had but a moment to get back to his senses, and it was good that he did, the view he was blessed with would be one burned into his memories for the rest of his long life.

He had almost missed it, as the batarian who had sent him sprawling onto his back came into view, its rifle pointed right at his face. It was a small object falling through the sky, twinkling like a star. It could very well have just been a piece of a ship falling down from orbit, and had it done nothing but fall, Jorban would have returned to battle thinking just that; but then it exploded in a brilliant blue pulse of energy.

In a blink-and-you-miss-it moment, a massive shockwave spread out through the sky. The rainclouds parted in its wake, the smoke vanished, rippling away until they were too thin to be seen. The fires in the air were snuffed out, to the point that even the burning jet wreckages, the fallen ships, and the white-hot streams of ammunition from the HellFire cannons instantly cooled down, but above all was the tone the sky took, as the blue pulse of energy spread outwards. It took on such a vibrant, deep blue hue, that it looked as if, for a moment, it had been taken straight from a painting.

All battle on the ground ceased, as the choked atmosphere above them gave way to a sky, bluer than it had ever been in recent memory. The vibrant hue quickly mellowed out to a paler, but still deep blue color, as the pulse travelled further and further, purifying the atmosphere and clearing the air of impurities. The entire sky seemed to grow cold and silent underneath its newfound blue hue, nothing burned in the blue sky, no thunder echoed from the gunshots, no smoke billowed, and no jets exploded.

Then, as all eyes turned upwards, the fire trails came in from orbit. They looked like meteors falling from the sky, trailing bright columns of fire and menacing pillars of smoke. One falling meteor was joined by another, was joined by two more, was joined by dozens upon dozens until the air was filled with thousands of them, all hurtling towards the ground. Jorban faintly heard batarians crying out, and guns were turned to the sky, but his sense of awe took over everything as his eyes widened, his jaw slack.

And yea though you will know I have ire, as my tears fill the sky and flood the ground. And from those tears, my Vectors of Battle. And you will know I am the One Above All.

"Amen…" Breathed Jorban, as he watched one trail of fire hurtle straight towards him. As it got closer, he saw that it wasn't a meteor, but a metal tomb, and out from its sides sprung two rockets, which pulsed powerfully, slowing it down, forcing the tomb to obey its own commands as opposed to the commands of saltor's harsh gravity. The fiery tomb slammed into the ground mere feet from Jorban and his aggressor, they both stared numbly at it as the hatch hissed loudly, and out from the metal tomb, came a god.

Two and a quarter meters tall, clad in light-absorbing jet black armor. Adorned across the right side of the harness fastened across his chest were the symbols 2-15, and as saltor's wind picked up, the black and red fatigues under his armor, adorned in a digital camouflage, billowed lightly. Cradled in his arms was a sleek and tubular rifle, and wrapped around his chest was a tactical vest. Its body was thinner than a child's, it had no tail. Its posture was as straight as an arrow. What little skin was visible was as black and light-absorbing as its armor. The god's face was enshrouded by a heavy mask and helmet made of the darkest metal, only broken by two angular plates of blood-red glass, which instantly locked onto the batarian.

The batarian roared out in anger and charged the god, but it reacted faster than saurianly possible. It ducked under a wild haymaker punch and tackled the creature to the ground. In a flurry of motion the god was back on its feet, had one planted on the batarian's chest, and its rifle hovering above its face. In a thunder that cleared the ringing from his ears, it perforated the batarian in a burst of gunfire. The batarian flopped backwards onto the ground, blood seeping from his wounds, and Jorban shrank under the god's intense gaze. The god thought for just a moment, before it cradled its rifle in one arm, and extended its other, causing Jorban to flinch as he was greeted with a hand.

Not talons, or claws, but a hand. An actual hand - five thin digits connected to a square palm, just as the stories had said.

"He…" Breathed the Lanceman, as he was beheld by the entire BattleVectorian Templum's namesake: A true vector for battle! The One Above All's chosen warriors! "You…" A god. "Thou…"

Hoomanisire.

Jorban shook his head and took the offered hand. The hoomanisire hauled him into the air with no effort at all and, after but a moment, found a rifle-form Energy Lance, which he shoved into Jorban's hands.

"MOVE TO THE CITY!" It thundered, so loudly and so forcefully that it completely snapped Jorban from his awestruck shock. "We counter there!"

It felt as if Jorban had been waiting his entire life to hear those seven words. It felt as if he had been born to hear them, and that his entire life he had been preparing to say just one thing in response.

"Amen!" He cried, as the God gave him a slap on the back and he, side by side with a Vector for Battle, charged towards the city.

He hardly even noticed two more falling in step behind the first, and when he made it to the city's edge, for a moment he became awestruck again as he saw more, and more, and more - thousands of them, all flowing through the battlefield like water. They moved in groups no larger than three, and through sheer presence and force of will they commandeered followings of thousands of BattleVectors and Tyyrahn each. He even saw metal tombs still falling through the air, some burying into the roofs of buildings, whereupon more gods immediately took up sniper positions, and some even leapt off of the buildings, their backs glowing with bright fire, as if Saltor's intense gravity was nothing to them. Some of the gods, who wore thicker suits of plate-metal like armor, stayed with the masses and fired their weapons, while others, who wore the harnesses similar to the one that had saved him, charged right into the field and engaged the batarians in a brutally efficient melee, snapping bones as easily as twigs and parting skin with their knives, in a shower of blood and gore, and a drumbeat of bodies hitting the floor.

If the battle for Innsua City had been partially contained chaos before, now it was just a slaughter spree in favor of the saltorians. However, for his negligence, Jorban received a slap across the back of his head.

"Snap out of it!" The god marked 2-15 bellowed out, throwing a knife-hand to the right as he spoke, "we need men on the right and left flanks, ours will push the center!" He gestured with harsh chopping motions, "I want you with the men on the left! We are not leaving until this city is ours!"

Jorban briefly followed his arm, seeing legions of BattleVectors rallying hordes of Tyyrahn around the lightly armored gods. He nodded once, and with a hearty, "yes, sire!" did exactly as he told, charging to the left advance, as 2-15 bolted towards the center, followed closely by its two fellows.

The one thought pervading the minds of every saltorian, as they advanced through the city with a ceaseless motion and momentum, was that they were well, truly, and perhaps even literally, blessed. They were righteous. They were good. They were favorable.

The Hoomanisire had returned.

A/N:

Hey folks!

So, this chapter was pretty early, and I may have rushed juuuuuust a little bit, but there's good reason. I know I've been on a little roll this last month, got quite a few chapters out, and it's looking like you all loved 'em. (Even got the TV tropes page updated! I fucking love that page!)

Uuuuuuunfortunately, I've got a little bad news. See, the reason I pushed this chapter out so fast, and also the reason it's shorter than the ones before it, comes down to something about to go down In Real Life, here in about a week.
The full version can be found over on my WordPress blog, but the short version is that, no matter how much I don't want to, and no matter how many limbs I threaten to hack off in protest, I've gotta go back to school.

Kind of.
Basically, in order to get into the Fire Department and start making Livin' Money, I need to get certified as an EMT.
So I'll be starting up that class here in a week, and it'll run me about six months.
And, since I plan on keeping up with my current job as much as I can during that six months, I don't plan on having anywhere near as much free time as I usually do, these days.
So the words I know you fear are about to be said:
The story might ed up on hiatus as a result.

Now, fortunately I've got sooooomething of a working plan so I can at least keep a one or two chapter per month thing going, at least until TNFW's finished. So, hopefully, fingers crossed, I'll at least be able to keep up somewhat and make it so the story doesn't die out entirely. Buuuut, in the event that does happen, I've got a plan for that - I'll just draft ahead until the very end of TNFW (which is approaching, by the way! And we've more than a few more twists awaiting us!), and once I get there, I'll release weekly until it's all well and done.

Then, as I start up and draft The Civil War, I'll start up The Hopeless War again and get that ball rolling.

Now, as I said, the class should only last six months, and I'll be annoying you all over Twitter and WordPress the whole ride through. (Got an idea of how to keep the blog alive beyond regular news, telling the stories of the stupid shit I get up to at work.) But I just wanted to give you all a heads up, so those of you who don't follow the news avenues at least have an idea of what's going on.

Next, fun fact: I had initially planned on having McGraw and TIM wake up at the end of this chapter, buuuut I decided against it. Save for one or two instances, I've never had McGraw and Spokane show up in the same chapter, and having him wake up and drop his 'You fucked up!' one liner would have detracted from the Alliance's arrival on Saltor.
And I've been looking forward to drafting that bit for years.

Finally, you may actually realize where we are in terms of story: Right there up next to the preview back in TFW.
That's still canon and that's still relevant, but given the amount of time between it and now, a lot has changed, story-wise.
From John's AI's name turning from 'Jenny' to 'Cassidy', to painting the II's as much more stoic than they were portrayed in the preview, the fact that the saltorians have never once referred to this as their 'Subjugation War'... And, you know, they're bulletproof (that was a recent decision, in the grand scheme of things), to a lot of small changes here and there.

The next chapter will, essentially, be that one, but written from a fresh point of view, from the ground up, with all of the history and revelations we've learned up to now packed in. Think of it less as a copy/paste job and a complete redesign and expansion.
Aaaand maybe Chris and TIM will wake up. I dunno where I'll fit that in, or if it'll even be on Day Seven to begin with, since I skipped it with this chapter.

Anyways, that's all for now!

'Till next time!

-PFB