"Let me be clear and unambiguous in our response: Anyo Corp does not foresee any further disposals at this time; and any disposals made are no reflection of Anyo Corp's Market Capitalisation. Any rumours of a Solaris uprising are just that: rumours, soon to be quashed."
- Nef Anyo, addressing market jitters
As the barges locked horns and clashed in the skies above Prospect 141, the ground fight enjoyed a momentary lull: a welcome reprieve for the rebels; all but exhausted from the initial assault.
Crouched behind a statue in the open plaza, Vanger Hosk knew they had to keep pushing. Every moment they delayed, the Corpus manufactories produced more and more of their proxies; a machine-stamped army at their beck and call. The odds would only skew further and further in the Board's favour. And yet, as they pushed across the open clearing, Hosk saw the waiting battlements of Watch Control's mighty ziggurat; the defence towers and fixed emplacements that would sweep the Solaris down in droves. He saw the way his own people stop for breath in what little cover there was; run ragged since that first bloody push from the landing site.
A knot of despair tangled in his gut.
To delay was to reinforce the enemy. To advance, certain death. The Solaris were brave, as brave and tough as could be, but volunteers. Only Hosk and his agents had formal combat training, and they were scattered throughout the rank and file in the command roles necessary to maintain some semblance of coordination.
A mighty metal hand landed on his shoulder.
Mirage started down at him. There was no expression in those jewel-like eyes beyond a manic, burning intensity. Sara's voice emanated around the Frame, resolute.
"Hold your people back, Hosk."
"We can't stop!"
"We have to. Look at your people, look around. They won't make that push. Not yet."
Hosk looked at the men and women beside him. Those capable of expression were lined with exhaustion; their faces drawn and pale. The mechanised betrayed no expression, but the heaving rise and fall of their shoulders, the sweat drenching their necks and overalls told him enough. They were all too human. Hosk himself could feel every ache, bruise and scrape he had taken in the murderous push.
Hosk nodded grimly. He gave the order, sounding a halt to their advance.
Positions were taken, in the plaza across from Watch Control. Spotters established; sniper teams settling on rooftops and drill-fixing anti-material weaponry into dark tiles.
Further afield, City Watch forces melted away, ceding a vast swathe of territory to the Solaris advance. The Solaris crept through abandoned guild houses, wired from the combat high; jumping at shadows and thoroughly spooked.
Nevertheless, the opportunity was seized. Forward command posts were established in key positions around the ziggurat; the rebels garrisoning everything from eerily silent temples to abandoned clearing houses; their trading floors empty but for a scattering of discarded data slates and blinking monitors, showing line after line of scrolling stock data. The stock tickers showed downward arrows next to Anyo Corp. The Solaris saw this and let out a raucous cheer.
The Solaris insurgency dug in, the ziggurat looming in the distance.
The markets were down. Anyo had shorted its position in Prospect 141. A mysterious new buyer. Speculation was rife that a potential takeover of their wider assets in the sub-sector was imminent.
The boy sat cross legged on the floor of his ship, watching the rapid assimilation of market data unfold in real time. The Corpus were often predictable. One hand tapped at the holographic keyboard; the other swiping window after window; arranging a tableau before him. Every floating window was precisely organised; their position just so. It was a dizzying amount of information to track, but the boy drank it in without the slightly semblance of trouble. Trade data; troop movements. Much of the information was illegal. Much of it he had personally extracted from Corpus data-vaults; with or without their consent.
A picture began to form.
Ah, there it was. A Corpus frigate, moving in from low orbit. Doubtless Anyo, looking to quash the rumours of a fire-sale, or any loose talk of open Solaris insurgency. That meant military grade proxies, elite soldiers; even orbital bombardment, should Anyo decide to simply mothball the troublesome colony entirely. Whatever the case, one thing was clear: Vanger Hosk's little rebellion was on borrowed time without direct intervention.
Brown eyes dark and thoughtful, the boy opened the com channel.
"Sara, you're going to have company."
Isolde and her companions arrived at the Eastern Landing Bay. It was quiet here, as quiet as could be, given recent events.
The Eastern Bay was situated on the opposite side of the Upper Tier to where the insurgency had made their blazing entrance. The collapse of the data stacks had left much of the colony without power. Those worst affected were in the Low Tier, where an already distressing level of privation was further compounded by a loss of power and automated emergency services.
Here, everything still functioned, but barely. Emergency lighting bathed everything in a malevolent red. They edged through the gloom carefully; Vern on point, his Lex in his hands.
Vern's boot splashed in something. He looked down. He realised that not all of the red around them was from the emergency systems.
Blood. It pooled across the floor, splashed the walls and spattered across the ceiling in great arcs.
There were no insurgents here, no signs of struggle or gunfire. Only wanton slaughter.
Most of the bodies were Corpus. Men, women; even children. Panicked traders for the most part, hoping to flee the uprising; only to encounter something far more dangerous. The occasional City Watch guard was identifiable only by the occasional severed limb or crumpled, discarded helmet.
Neera gagged. They all turned to look at her; Isolde eventually patting her on the arm, trying to console her but doing an otherwise terrible job at it. The others, hardened killers all; kept a watchful eye on every corner, primed for combat.
Vern was used to blood; had been around violence most of his life. This was different. It was calculated; brutally one-sided. It had been done as a demonstration; some kind of declarative challenge.
It had been done without the guards getting off so much as a shot.
Parson-Luk crouched down, dipping his fingers in the blood. He tasted it briefly; tasted the fear. He looked up at Vern, expression grave.
"Fresh Boss. Thirty minutes, tops."
Vern swallowed. They hadn't heard a thing.
Weapons raised, they advanced deeper into the docking bay; creeping forward. Neera followed behind the mighty Grineer; the only sound the heavy plodding of his feet, and the ticking rasp of his war rig's breathing apparatus. Even his breathing seemed elevated.
They rounded the corner. Brakarr held up a clenched fist. The team froze in place.
A Moa was pinned to the wall; one of its legs still kicking. Brakarr examined the body, grunting as he pulled free the item pinning it in place. The Moa collapsed to the floor with a clank that made Neera jump in the dark.
Brakarr tossed the object to Isolde. It was small, metallic and preternaturally sharp.
"One of yours."
Isolde turned it over in her hands. It was a kunai, identical to the one pinned in her hair.
The hairs on her neck stood up. She didn't need her Void Sense to get this spooked.
"Keep moving." Vern said quietly. Even he seemed on edge.
They swept into the open landing bay itself.
Every transport was ablaze; a hellscape of crackling fire and rising, twisting smoke.
A Bursa unit had been deployed to counter the butchery. The Bursa was an advanced security drone, intended only for the most extreme threats; known for its lethality in all hard-contact environments.
No longer. The Bursa slumped in the middle of the Docking Bay, surrounded on all sides by burning transports.
Speared through its central processing core was a single, golden sword; coated in the blood of innocents, planted like some murderous flag.
Isolde stepped forward, scraping the blade free; expertly turning it over in her hands. The blade was ancient; its edge keen and hungry. A priceless artefact of Orokin design; she examined its hilt with ever-mounting dread.
The sigil was a brass eye; the bas-relief picked out by a single emerald pupil inset into the hilt; its edges chased in luxuriant silver threaded with gold. A thousand memories stirred within her, each darker than the last.
Isolde knew it well. Had fought and killed and bled for it centuries ago.
Had sworn never to wear its instrument of war again.
The House of Septimus.
The House Eternal.