-INTERLUDE-
HOUSE OF THE LORD REMNANT
FIRST REALM OF THE DIVINE DESOLATION
301st YEAR OF THE AWAKENED ERA
GAIA
THE ROAR OF THE LAST LIGHTER taking off from its private dock died away. More edicts for the outer reaches, more orders for those who waited at the Staging. Far below, the last of the Official Dissension were being dealt with and their bodies stacked to be shipped and recycled. The vast hall behind him seemed to sigh with the breaths of those assembled and awaiting, servants and ministers arrayed, robed and silent, awaiting his pleasure.
He had no name, only his title: Lord Echo Remnant of the Divine Desolation, though others called him the 'True Son of the Echo', the 'Hand of the Cursed', names he did not protest, but did not give much in the way of credence. He needed only the one. There was no government, only his rule, only his word, only his will.
He was 81st Lord Echo Remnant since the First True Echo and the Awakening, and easily the most ruthless. He was tall, made taller by the armored exosuit he wore under his robes of office, the suit like a second skin, making him faster, stronger and more durable than most. Like the identity of the True Echo, it was a closely guarded secret of the Sacred House. He had a hawkish nose, sharp cheekbones, a bold chin, and black eyes, product of the sensor overlay that enhanced his vision. Between his eyes and extending down to the tip of his nose he wore the silver dagger of the First Obedience, to remind all who looked upon him that he alone held the power of life and death over the UnTold billions. To be killed by or on the Order of The Sacred House meant Grace and the Divine Enfolding. To die any other way not Sanctioned meant Loss and Oblivion. The Cursed Remnants followed and obeyed, they the last of the Divine Made Flesh, condemned to mundane matter until all had been Blessed by the Desolation, hence their Curse and their burden.
Only The House knew the Ways of the Desolation, only The House knew Where and When and Who Would Be Chosen.
He turned from the immense windows, from the huge city before him, the Capital of all, for there were no others, but it wasn't a city, not really. It was actually one building, the Lord Remnant's Temple Fortress. He looked back over the equally immense halls, all pillars and gold leaf and huge spaces, all to the purpose of the Emulation of The Echo. It was one of the most immense planetary structures ever created by Man. One building, the size of a continent, all with one purpose: to Aid the Awakening, to carry out the Will, to seed it across the Outer Universe. The Tribute had built this place, the most Sacred in the Galaxy. At the end of the last Crusade, a century before, with the fall of the last of the blue Witches' temples, it remained the only place of worship on the Civilized Worlds, all other False having been struck down and razed.
The Lord Remnant put his hands behind his back and walked in no hurry toward the balcony where he would address the Precursor Legions, the small Expeditionary Force that would precede the main Armies, who would follow when all was parallel to the Design. The Articulation, as it was called in the Texts, had been a Voice from The Scissure, heard by his progenitor over 300 years ago. It had uttered the Five Precepts, the only Facts that were true. He knew them as he knew his own skin, his own mind.
There is An Answer.
All Will Serve, All Will See.
There is Salvation In Destruction.
Order Must be Imposed.
There is only One End.
He glanced down at the Witch at his feet, refusing to even acknowledge their race name – (for it certainly didn't matter any longer, as they were now nothing more than another servant race, their culture long since obliterated) faces on the floor, horns clipped and capped, selectively lobotomized to remove their powers. They made excellent servants once so pacified, the access to their witchfire cut off. Their clothing was flimsy, filmy and mainly designed to hinder any desire to flee. It had no pockets, they wore no shoes. They had nowhere to go.
At the far of the chamber, collar-locked and also domesticated - his favourite Brutes – he forgot at the moment what they had once called themselves, like the Witches it really mattered not any longer; guarded the entrances to the Hall. He was pleased with the latest Dissention. Five hundred thousand martyrs – aliens, yes, true, but Food for The Desolation was an exalted ending, even moreso for aliens. They were sacrificed to keep Humanity free to do the Divine's Will, which was, of course, All.
Halfway down the hall he spied the Beloved, She Who Carried The Will, awaiting him. She possessed the Litany transcribed into her living flesh, and thus the Litany lived in her Blessed Form. As he drew parallel to Her, she gracefully rose and joined him at his side. In her robes, she looked ethereal and light, beautiful and serene. In his arms, however, she was anything but, one of the qualities he admired in Her, Her Blessed Dichotomy. Her robes were rich and rust-coloured, chased through with gold and platinum thread, She hooded against unworthy eyes. In all the universe, She was the only thing he cherished.
"Speak," he told Her, "I can see you have news."
She nodded, tucked Her hands into Her sleeves.
"The Pogrom of the Horns proceeds apace. They have proven clever and wily, so much so they have actually given the Ninth Legion pause. Nevertheless, the planet will be Purged by the end of the next OverFestival, though they are stubborn."
"Excellent. Tell the Lord Hound of Thrice to spare a few million for Rectification. If they are so clever, some may be useful, collared."
She nodded, continued.
"The Voices have begun to speak. The Scissure tells of the Resumption. You were right to assemble the Endless so soon, though your ministers protest."
"Of course they did. They must feel useful, after all." He nodded. Somewhere, far away, a bell tolled, a note he enjoyed. The note would chime all over the world and on every colony. It was time to pray to him for his guidance, for the Will to be Spread. For a moment, every world would be silent all at once. "I knew, of course I knew. All through the Corridors the Pulse flew, heralding the destruction of the False Machines, its fire reaching even through the Scissure. What else could follow if not the Resumption?"
"Resistance is being noted, however." She told him softly. "Initial sorties have been found out, or soon will be. Nascent resistance is being reported." He arched an eyebrow.
"So soon? We have barely begun. The Corrupted rear up, never learning."
"Naturally. It may be we have yet apostates among us. None could know of the Resumption so soon save those in the Precedents."
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a Witch drop her head back to the floor.
So. Listening, were you? Well, well. Is it possible to be so ringed with traitors even here? So much ignorance in the universe. So many railed against the Inevitable.
Still casual, he told The Beloved,
"I shall task to your able hands an Inquisition. That they could be among Us stretches belief, could have somehow foiled the Sieves, but it has happened before." The Beloved bowed Her head. "You may use your own discretion in this matter, of course."
"Lord – a disturbing development." She frowned. The Beloved had been implanted long ago, her Ears hearing all that needed Hearing.
"Speak, Beloved."
"External agents report that a number of Corrupted appear to be assembling at the Silent Pivot. They cannot report numbers, but assure Us it is True."
"Prepare a troop of Your Inquisitors for special duty. Fifty should do. Send them to the Pivot. They are not to harm the Pivot, however."
"As you Command. I am concerned, Lord."
"For what matter?"
"The Corrupted are as we once were. Collected, could they not be a force to trouble Us?"
"I will offer them the Redemption, of course, Beloved. But I will sweep them aside should they oppose us."
"That seems inevitable."
"Nothing is inevitable, save the Passing of The Will." He smiled at her. "Be at ease, Beloved. Tend to your Inquisition, I shall secure the future. I am That Which I Am, am I not?"
"Yes, Lord." She bowed her head, and he nodded, satisfied.
"Begin your Inquiry," he said, as he came to the Witch who'd been listening, suddenly stepping to her and dropping his foot on her neck. She yelped, squirmed. "…with these things." A exosuit-powered stomp crushed the witch's neck vertebrae and stopped both noise and scrabbling. "They may have sympathetics in the Sieve."
"At once, Lord. The Endless await you." He bowed to Her once, it was returned, and She turned from him to exit via a side passage.
Behind him, unheeded, two witches dragged the dead from the hall, food for his Brutes, another scrubbing the floor where it had died. He stepped around the altar, walked a short hallway and through a massive ornately-carved gold door to a large balcony overlooking an vast plaza, kilometers square.
As he stepped into a view, a deafening roar greeted him. Hidden microphones along with a concealed massive and advanced sound system carried his voice effortlessly across that mammoth space. Below, every square meter had a body in it, armed and armored, the soldiers in their white armor, the officers in their black, all bearing the skeletal pattern that told all they were true to death. Above them hovered the Ships of the Desolation, above those the colossal troop transports that could carry three hundred thousand troops at a time. Above them the mighty warships that would carry the fight to the Corrupted. They called his mighty force 'Pandemonia', but it was merely their misguided label, their fear and ignorance.
The Lord Remnant was the Hand of the Cursed, the Endless his Fist. The Fist that had conquered this space would conquer all else.
More than fifty billion of The Endless waited, Holy Warriors of the Cursed Remnants of the Divine Desolation, all Blessed by the Infestation, all Purified. Each of his armies, stationed at key points in this 'reality' (only the House knew the true nature of this 'universe'.) was five hundred million strong, all preparing for the Day of Release, when they would spread across the Lie like a wave, bringing Salvation through Desolation to all. Below him, five million strong, his First Wave, the tiny expeditionary force to pacify and clear the Way. He raised his hands, and as one, the roar ceased.
"Spear of the Endless! The Scissure has Spoken! The Progression begins!" Another roar from the troops below. "Once again, the Corrupted slink from their holes to bar our way! Once again they seek to stop the Inevitable and restrict the Divine Reach of the Blessed Desolation!" Another roar, this time in anger. "Warriors - to your Deaths! Prepare the Way, ease the passing of the Sanctified Desolation! Bring to the Corrupted the Inevitable! This is your Sacred Task, your Holy Charge, your Divine Right! Magnificent Endless! The Remnants bless you, the Divine Follow you! Go!"
The roar rose to immense proportions, turned into a chant that was both his name and a call to the Echo, soon to break off into hymns and devotionals - and he turned and left them to it. It would take days to embark all those troops, days more to get into formation to Fold out of the system and to the Staging. From there, they would pass from the First Realm into The Lie, the space beyond, and woe to any who stood before them. To prepare the way, he had already dispatched the mightiest ship of his fleet – the Eternal Note, to teach those of the Lie fear.
Now, though, an Inquisition. He smiled to himself, anticipating a fine day of entertainment. The witches died so well, lasted so long, their keening a particularly sweet music he found to his tastes, and the Beloved was so expert at seeking the Truth, even if it came from such desolate places.
Eventually, when the Realm expanded as it would invariably, he would have the remaining Corrupted under his boot or extinguished, those pale imitations of he and the Beloved, their infernal interference ended forever, allowing him at last to fulfill his only Purpose. The Corrupted - some even hailed as heroes and whose counterparts here he'd long since obliterated; the T'soni witch, with her wiles and secrets, neither of which protected her when the Beloved's Inquisitors arrived. She'd fought well, he'd been told, but it availed her little. T'soni had been paraded across the four points of the Temple, naked and bound, before finally being fed alive to his Brutes for the amusement of the rabble. The quarian nuisance, whose name he could not recall and whose pathetic resistance force had been crushed in less than a week, she'd begged like all the rest of her worthless race. He'd had her stripped from her suit and gave her naked and screaming to a troop of his men for their pleasure. She did not, it had been reported, last long, a few days before managing to throw herself from a window. She'd been the congratulatory meal for one of his arena Brutes for a well-fought bout, after she'd been scraped from the plaza she sullied. Her suit he had stuffed and mounted in his chambers. Then, the expulsion of the so-called "Last Turian", Vakar-something into the Lie, the only member of his race spared, his torment of being the very last sweet vengeance for the thorn in the side he'd been.
Those damn'd turian vermin…
There were no turians alive in his Realm, not since they'd dared assault and occupy Gaia before the Scissure had opened and the Echo had empowered Humanity. His Hate for them was Divine in its light, and unquenchable in its thirst for their utter extermination. It had taken almost a century to eradicate them after they'd been thrown off Mother's Soil, almost every last one defiant and fighting to the end, for every centimeter, every last second of life. They were almost to be admired for such doggedness. Almost. Any trapped animal fought valiantly for its survival. It had been his immense pleasure to crush the last one slowly with his own hands, and to his delight, it had taken a long time to die.
The quarians proved more tractable. Their homeworld long occupied, they driven into space, now trapped in their sad fleets, trapped in those ridiculous suits, they patrolled the Stagings endlessly, in the vain hope that their planet would be returned to them – someday.
Poor fools.
As far as he could remember, his predecessors had long since killed the majority of them, razed the planet to the bedrock, burned off its atmosphere, there being nothing there for anything Human, had stripped it of any useful resource, then Cracked it like an egg and left it as a sad, dim asteroid field in its dead system. The planet's name had long since been blotted from memory, but he was fairly certain they remembered. He supposed the quarians would just have to go on with their patrols, the 'pact' they had made after the failed insurrection, to patrol and report, to free his soldiers and ships for their far more important duties. Such a pact was meaningless only in that they believed it. He discounted the rumours of the quarians building artificial servants – some private army to subvert their Task and eventually rebel again. He almost laughed at that – as a race, since they had been driven from their planet by those who came before him, the quarians had taken to environmental suits, and were so weak because of them one small tear in those suits doomed them. He had anti-quarian troops that were covered in spines and protrusions, with weapons that fired ballistically, fired spikes and blades and bullets coated in various poisons. He could wipe them out at any time, almost effortlessly. Where, he wondered, would they get either resources to build this 'army' or hide it from his Eyes?
Let them have their fantasies.
Their last attempt at a rebellion, led by the filth that once occupied the suit in his chambers, had cost them three million dead, a sizable reduction in their already declining populations, and it took less than a week to accomplish. He'd ordered a Rebuke, had fifty thousand of their females raped by his Brutes and soldiers and a hundred thousand of their children tortured to death, all broadcast live through their fleet as a reminder as to the price of opposition to Divinity. They had crawled back to their roles, craven, broken and utterly Chastised.
They were nothing, idiotic rumours be damned.
He eyed one of the – what were they called? Ah, yes – 'krogan' guards as he went past. Animals, but useful ones. All krogan in the Temple were collared and controlled. They were favourites in the arenas, and his champion the most favoured at all, being undefeated in five hundred bouts. In recognition of his prowess he was allowed a name - the Lord Remnant called him "King" – an irony lost on the brainless dog, but amusing to the crowds. As long as they were collared, they were loyal. The wild ones bred like maggots in a corpse though, were savage and extremely violent, and considered a pest on the outer reaches, and the culls were always popular entertainment. He'd have to organize one after the Inquisition. Their numbers could not be allowed to grow too large.
Yes. He had order here. Order under his Enlightened Rule, and order soon to be spread gloriously across the universe and enforced forever.
The Lord Remnant – a great and loving father, a true shepherd to his loyal flock, would see to it.
-INTERLUDE ENDS-