By Richard Karpusiewicz
of Sun and Shadows
April 2845
Inside the cockpit of his Basilisk, Griph Weathers sat in relative comfort, despite being somewhat cramped by the wombchair the herc had been equipped with for this mission. The bipedal vehicle itself had its exterior cushioned with several tons of shock-absorbent foam, inside a semi-flexible docking scaffold, and anchored through magnetic locks on the herc's feet. Once the dropship made landfall, as it was scheduled to do in three hours, twenty-seven minutes, those anchoring measures would quickly be released, depolarized or simply fall away, allowing for rapid disembarkation into what was likely going to be a very hot combat zone.
Griph sighed. It was difficult, what he was doing out here, and although he had faith in the Organization, it was hard to know sometimes what was the right thing. In his forty years of life he'd experienced more than some had in a hundred – at least that's what it felt like to him. On second thought he assumed time had slowed to a day by day crawl for the rest of humanity during the Starsiege as well. Don't be so cocky pal, you're not alone in this thing, he reminded himself. He checked his instruments for the third time in five minutes, sighed again. Griph never would get used to the waiting – he was impatient by nature, a victim of his genes perhaps. After all it was the same restless, fiery blood that flowed throughout the entire Weathers family… wasn't it?
It was hard to say now – more complicated than he liked to dwell on. Yes dammit, he thought. Bek was… is my uncle. Always will be. His hands clenched into fists involuntarily, and he forced himself to relax. Leaning back in his seat he tilted his head back, staring through the lowered visor of his protective helmet at darkened and discolored surroundings. Things used to be so simple… he thought, closing his eyes and drifting back to earlier days.
February 2829
The Petresun Imperial Knight Academy in Nova Alexandria was abuzz with activity. From the window of his private quarters Knight-Lieutenant Griphon Weathers glanced down at the city below. He could see the Imperial Palace from here, a massive golden pyramid towering above the rest of the buildings in sight. There was not a doubt in his mind that the Empire was the grandest thing in the history of man, worth defending to the last drop of human blood – whether it was Earthborn or Martian. He had little sympathy for the rebels on Mars and Venus before now. Now, he hated them. Hated them with the most intense passion he'd ever felt in his life.
Griph had felt this way ever since earlier this year, when it had come to light that the Rebel leader had been none other than Harabec Weathers – his long gone uncle. The shame had cut more deeply than any blade ever could to the young man. The fond childhood memories of his uncle Bek were gone, replaced by a flood of shame and anger. How could he do this to me? How could he soil the family name? There wasn't a day that had passed since the so-called "Phoenix Declaration" that these thoughts had not coursed through young Griph's head. Freedom for Martians! The very idea was treasonous.
So intense was the young Knight's rage that he had vowed the same vengeance as his father upon his traitor uncle. Only blood could erase the stain on the Weathers family honor. To this end Griph had formed his own sub-Order of the Imperial Knights, approved just days after the Martian Declaration – the Order of the Avenging Blades, a sub-Order of his beloved Furious Stars. Ironically the same Order Harabec had belonged to when he was a Knight. But the Avenging Blades existed for one sole purpose: to kill Harabec Weathers. Griph had managed to recruit several of his friends and sword-mates into the new group, not difficult considering his charismatic personality and the fact that he was to be placed in charge of his sword and attached to Strikeforce Red Whirlwind, the newly assembled mobile force of Knights that was to depart shortly for Mars. There was hardly a Knight on the planet not spoiling for a chance to get at the "dustrags." War fever was in the air, and it was electric.
Taking a step away from the window he brought his gaze away from Nova Alexandria's skyline and to a snapshot framed on his desk. Gently he reached out and picked up the frame, drawing the image closer to him. There was just one thing here on Earth that he would regret leaving, and her name was Patience Fairchild. You are the most beautiful girl in the world, he thought, taking in her soft features, jet black hair and hazel eyes, appraising her as he had so many times before. He loved Patience, had told her so himself, and had sworn he would marry her someday. For her part, she seemed to love Griph as well; after all it was hard for any woman not to be attracted to his youthful energy, good looks and cavalier attitude. His father Caanon knew about the relationship and approved – the Fairchild family was one of the most affluent and respected in the Empire.
Before now, the idea that Griph could potentially be killed and his hopes for a future marriage dashed had not occurred to him. His father had originally been against bringing any of his sons with him on the hunt for Harabec. "He is my brother, and that burden is mine alone." Those had been his words. However, Griph's brothers had vouched for him; each had seen combat, accrued glory and honors. They felt that the youngest of them deserved no less than the same opportunity. Grudgingly, the Grandmaster had bowed to the consensus of his sons, and approved Griph's attachment to the elite attack group.
Griph remembered how jealous he had been when Hector had been dispatched with Strikeforce Rocking Horse to Venus three years ago to quell an uprising. Griph hadn't had his first command yet, was seething that he was looked at as a graduate intern and a popular figure. True, he was respected for his skills, but back then he had been denied a chance to be a part of history. My God, he thought, has it been three years already? Staring at the portrait of his sweetheart, he knew that this wasn't training anymore. This wasn't a game. It was going to be war. And this time, he was going to be a part of it.
April 2845
T-minus two hours. The Basilisk's computer chimed the updated mission timetable, and Griph realized he had been dozing. Somewhat annoyed, he wiped at his mouth felt the stickiness of his own saliva. Irritating as it was it was a habit he could never seem to shake – nothing the medics or physicians could give him would stop it without drying out his mouth so badly that it gave him an uncomfortable sensation. Wiping his hand on the leg of his jumpsuit, he returned his attentions to his herc diagnostics. Computer was running last minute error checks, flexors were reading good, reactor temperature normal, weapons on stand-by, and all systems were green. Now all he needed was the word to go.
Griph knew what had to be done. He'd done it at least a dozen times before. His unit would hit the insertion zone hard, first on the ground and clear the LZ quick before the toasters knew what hit 'em. Then they'd sweep a wider area as the other two attack groups reinforced. After them came the light vehicles and the infantry, to assist in capturing and holding any Cybrid strong points encountered. And if intelligence was accurate on this one, there'd be plenty.
The glitches had set up an intricate series of defenses; this was a planet of value, with natural resources and a strategically important location. Naturally, that meant it had to be taken. But it was more than just that. This battle, this whole war in fact, wasn't about just seizing territory – it was about extermination. Just as they launched the war of genocide on us… so must we on them, thought Griph grimly. There was just no other way. Let the Cybrids get away today and they'll be back tomorrow; that was the lesson of the Earthsieges. Now the end was in sight… with just one last determined push it could all be over. The orders were clear: let none escape…
July 2829
"Harabec will not escape me."
Griph ordered the sword to spread out, covering the rocky Martian terrain with mutually supporting positions. He was with Avenging Steel squad, remaining roughly even with the support squad, Avenging Fire, until the advance skirmishers of Avenging Blood had located the enemy and were engaged. Once that occurred, Weathers was prepared to lead the assault personally. However, the Knights had quickly learned that the rebels had a penchant for ambushes, milking their strange alien technology for all it was worth, determined to find any advantage they could. They fought well, and he admired them for it, but Griph remained confident that nothing on Earth or Mars could stand in the way of his Knights.
"Sword leader this is Blood leader, we've got something." The transmission crackled over Griph's comm. "Looks like dust trails, heading into the canyon, away from us bearing northeast one-one-three. Setting a nav." The nav point blinked into existence on the squad's shared satellite HUD, and the Knight-Lieutenant nudged his Basilisk to the left in the direction of the sighting, a smug grin already tugging at the corners of his face. Caught you running dusters, have I?
"Roj that, nav confirmed. Alter course to pursue. Chase 'em down Blood leader."
"That's affirmative Sword leader." Came the reply.
A scarce two minutes later Blood leader reported in again – this time to say the dust trails had stopped, were swirling about. There was a seventeen and a half second window in which Knight-Lieutenant Weathers could have processed that information, deciphered its meaning, and reacted appropriately. In that brief seventeen point five seconds, lives could have been saved. But Griph did not understand, did not react appropriately. In fact he did not understand how the tactical situation had changed until almost twenty-two seconds after Blood Leader's final report-in. Too late.
When the Martians disengaged their cloaks, Avenging Blood squad's four Talons stared two Dreadlock tanks, six medium makeshift Emancipators, and a heavier Martian Olympian in the face. The pilots were good, reacted fast despite the shock of the ambush, but not fast enough. At almost point blank range the rebs opened up, tearing holes in the Knights' little band of light hercs. Almost at once two Talons went down, including Blood leader, the others making a panicked escape back towards their sister squads. The rebels poured out from the mouth of the narrow pass, determined to spread out and make harder targets. Along with the startled transmissions of his decimated recon unit Griph could easily make out the Martian battle cry over the open frequency.
"Free Mars!"
Griph rallied his squad and attacked bravely. With an Apocalypse and two Minotaurs in tow, he thought there might still be a chance for victory – especially considering that Avenging Fire squad was still intact and had a Gorgon, two Apocalypses and a Basilisk ready to rain missiles and railgun slugs on the attacking foe. Despite the ability of his sword to go toe to toe with these Martians in ideal conditions, Griph failed to account that these were not ideal conditions. He also failed to account for Martian tenacity – and of course, their battery of heavy artillery support.
The beleaguered Knights struggled bravely for several minutes, but the ferocity of the attack was too much. As the long-range explosive shells began to fall amongst the surprised and shattered unit, images of Turkhazakistan flashed through Griph's head. The only way Harabec had escaped that deathtrap was to charge through the enemy lines and cut his way out – but this was a different situation, and to his credit Griph saw that. Getting behind this enemy group would still place the Knights well within range of enemy artillery, where they could be tagged and picked off at leisure.
"Fall back!" Griph shouted the order even though it was anathema to him, knowing it was the only thing that could save his men and women. Fighting hard, two more swordmates made the ultimate sacrifice to ensure their escape, fully a squad's worth of losses. The mocking laughter of the victorious rebels continued to chase them long after the enemy had broken off pursuit.
"You see how those Teddies ran? Chalk one up for the Red Armageddon!"
April 2845
Griph yawned, stretching as best he could within the narrow confines of the cockpit. He twisted his neck from side to side, heard cracking and decided to stop. Adjusting the sleeves and collar of his jumpsuit in boredom, he ran through the plan in his mind for the thousandth time.
There were three Organization units deploying, and the dropships had been staggered in appropriate formations. Each was roughly the size of a sword, give or take a herc or two. The mercenaries were well organized but recognized the need for flexibility on the battlefield. Occasionally an extra man would act as spotter or fire support. Griph was leading the first group down, the next two were to be handled by Pred and Falc, respectively. The plan was fairly simple: a three point hot insertion, followed by a search and kill sweep to secure the central LZ perimeter. Each insertion point was approximately twelve klicks from the other two. After the foothold had been established, the APCs, infantry and light artillery could be dropped in for support and to begin attacking primary objectives as well as targets of opportunity.
Griph expected the area to be crawling with targets. Recon had been very good for this op, there was a very strong probability that some of the Cybrid structures seen from orbit were manufacture or refining facilities, which meant that the 'brids would defend them to the last newboot and labor drone. The glitches were running out of holes to hide in, and this rough little mountainous planetoid was one of their main remaining activity centers. Before the op had launched warships had begun moving to seal off any escape attempt from the planet's surface. The bottle had been capped.
As for the objectives themselves, there were forty-seven in all, varying from what were assumed to be power generators, communications arrays, scanners, coolant towers, ore refineries, Nexus centers, even a construction and repair yard of sorts. The speed at which the enemy had established these critical links had only reinforced the Organization's opinion that the Cybrids were still a valid threat to humanity. Spearheading the attack was a great responsibility, not merely for the Organization's employers but also for the human race.
Across the rapidly expanding interstellar frontiers, the Cybrids were being hunted down and destroyed, so that they could never again be a threat. Griph remembered his father's words for this war, what he had called the Chase in that historic address… "The great effort of our generation that will at last put an end to abomination, and purchase our freedom from fear."
September 2829
"I'm not leaving without my father, dammit!"
"That's your choice Lieutenant Weathers, but I'm not staying here to wait for you." Replied the dropship's flight officer on the comm. "Orders are orders, I'm afraid. Sorry sir." The Grand Fleet had barely arrived on Mars when the recall issue was ordered. It was pandemonium on the ground, with Knights who had been out on ops struggling to get to the nearest LZ and get off the planet. Communications channels were flooded and GLORIA was unstable. On top of it all, the rebels were taking advantage of the confusion to launch sweeping strikes at the massive uncoordinated evacuation.
Griph had been harsh with the man, said rough words he now regretted. After all, he'd only been doing his duty, and it was Caanon who had chosen to stay behind instead of lifting early, trying to buy more time for the other Knights to escape. Griph had done the same, urging his men to return to the Fleet and wait for him, not to be stranded on this dustball. Meanwhile he went alone in search of his father.
From his station southeast of Victoria, Griph redlined his Basilisk eastward towards the vicinity of Mole Deep. The entire time he was glued to the comm channels, and it was pandemonium. At forward observation points dropships were dumping their cargo to accommodate hercs, supply dumps were being abandoned and spoiled, and he spotted several fires on the horizon. He felt his heart rise in his chest each time he saw those black and red painted Knight's dropships lifting off into the heavens, abandoning all he and they had fought for these past months at the drop of a hat. Not once did Griph stop to question the men hastily preparing to depart – he knew they were merely following orders handed down from above. He had heard it in the urgency of his own CO's voice, knew that this was genuine, whatever the cause of it. Without a doubt there was something serious afoot; revolution in the capital, perhaps? Rumors of popular revolution on Earth and Venus in response to the Imperial retaliation were spreading as well.
Griph wasn't sure what to believe really, he only knew he had to find his father as quickly as possible. Caanon was protecting his men as they fell back, trying to by more time for them to reach their transports. From the sounds of the incoming reports, the rebels were taking full advantage of the situation. All throughout Petresun province, the Martian Liberation Front was rolling back entrenched Knight positions and the rapidity of their strikes was causing the intended havoc many times over. Spying the sparkling debris of a crashed dropship littering the plain in front of him, Griph gritted his teeth and refocused himself, determined to stay sharp in case he ran into any dusters.
The passage of time was impossible to measure in that wide open Martian desert. Daylight had just begun to fade when Griph finally located the combat area his father was directing. The tactical situation was quite bad, that was evident from both the stream of transmissions begging for more time before dropship departure and citing incoming rebel forces as well as a cursory glance at his satellite HUD – the Knight pocket was about to be surrounded, and there was intense fighting at several points ongoing. The nearest other such pocket of resistance was about a hundred klicks to the west. Without the slightest hesitation, Griph broke from his course and plunged into the fighting, autocannons blazing, sending a pair missiles streaking towards the nearest target of opportunity.
"New contact, identify yourself! What unit are you from, Knight?" The questioner's voice was distorted by the comm, but it was still unmistakably Grandmaster Caanon Weathers, the Icehawk… his father. It was a moment Griph had dreamed of – following his father into combat and fighting side-by-side with him. He couldn't stop the smirk that was beginning to form on his face as he replied.
"Hey dad." For a few long seconds silence prevailed.
"My son…" there was a pained note in his father's voice, and Griph suddenly regretted coming. For a brief moment the Icehawk's cool façade cracked, and cold anger seeped into his voice. "I ordered your Pennant to depart hours ago. Once again you've shirked your responsibility to your men and your Empire..." Trailing off, the Grandmaster's voice took on a quieter tone. "You've placed me in a difficult position here Griph. No sense arguing about it now, just get into line and relieve a squad four clicks southeast of you. We're being overrun."
The young Knight hurried to comply, but by the time he had reached the squad he was assigned to aid, half of them had been killed. Griph took command of them, a Gorgon and a Minotaur, and led them off in the direction of his father. The fighting was desperate; the rebels knew that they had the mighty Icehawk by the throat, and they refused to let go or release the pressure even the slightest bit. Before long Harabec himself had appeared on the field as well, hunting his brother. Almost inevitably, Caanon chose to stay until the last, until it was too late to escape. While it may have been his fate to fight his traitor brother to the death, he would not consign his Knights, including his son, to the same end. In the end there was only one option, as repugnant and offensive to his sense of honor and duty as it was – surrender.
Christmas Eve, 2829
He walked out alone into the chill night, pulling his jacket closer around him. He still wore his formal Knight's uniform – the standard grey bedecked with his rank insignia and his campaign ribbons, and the sharp black synth-leather and polished brass buttons. It wasn't very warm, however, so he had brought a pull-over windbreaker with him. It gave him a degree of warmth, but he still envied the much nicer fur-lined grey field cloaks he had noticed some of the mercenaries wearing – interesting that the Empire with all its resources and equipment provided less comfortable winter gear to its soldiers, even elites like the Knights, than the Black Death Union issued. Then again, he thought, those guys really are professionals as well in every sense of the word.
He'd seen the fighting they had done at Rio de Luz a few months back… the BDU had given the Knights a run for their money. Had they been facing typical TDF Legionaries instead of Imperial Knights, the BDU might well have held the city. As it was the siege of Rio took weeks longer than anticipated and required massive artillery bombardment and attack from the air in tandem with ground forces in order to dislodge the stubborn mercenary resistors. A significant number of Union forces had survived the battle and surrendered with honors. Griph still marveled at their relaxed yet professional attitude to military affairs. It was second nature to them.
Attendance at the nearby chapel with his father for the prayer gathering had been a mandatory event, although that was unspoken. He'd stayed only as long as necessary – Griph wasn't very religious and wasn't inclined to be either. He'd prayed for the family, of course, and for Patience. Damn Cybrids… he thought. And damn rebels. If they hadn't forced the Emperor to send the Fleet to Mars we wouldn't be in this situation. Although they were all in the same boat now – Earth and Mars, Knight and rebel, all hand-in-hand in a grand "Human Alliance." Even so, Griph had trouble shaking off his anger at the rebels who had started it all. In dragging the Knights and the Grand Fleet away from Earth, they had prevented him from being able to defend his home, he saw that now. He wasn't the lucky one of his brothers. In fact he wasn't sure if he'd ever see any of them again.
Frowning, he continued his stroll through the streets, reaching the edge of the town. Everything seemed perfectly still, and he leaned himself against the edge of some building, where the edge of the dusty plain met the city street. He stared out into the blackness; there was none of the city sounds he was used to, just stillness. He lifted his gaze to the stars and wondered about the future. Somewhere, up there in that beautiful sky, efficient and terrifying machines of death were reaching out for them all. The Cybrids had detached elements of their massive armada to attack Mars, and it wouldn't be long now before the first of the glitches reached the planet. The plan was to get as many people as possible off Mars, and make a run out-system, towards Saturn. The Long Patrol base on Titan was the ultimate goal.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw another figure, slumped against the site of the ceracrete wall, closer to him than he'd realized, only about ten meters away. He turned toward the figure now, saw it was a man, shorter than the average duster but he didn't have the same posture as a Knight would, not so rigid and straight. The man took a few stumbling steps towards him, lifted a hand in greeting – Griph saw he gripped a bottle in his other hand. Griph sized him up, briefly calculating his chances if the man turned out to be a drunken merc in the mood for a fight. It was only then that he really looked at him; saw the memorable face that had been on NewsNet screens ever since the Phoenix Declaration. It was the Martian leader himself – Harabec. His uncle. Griph automatically took a step backwards, eyes widening a bit, and Harabec saw he was recognized now, smiled drunkenly.
"Hey there Teddy… don't kill me now eh?" said Harabec, his voice slurred a bit, evidently by whatever was in the bottle. Griph merely stared back at him, feeling surprised and awkward. Meanwhile Harabec, who was very close now, attempted to through his arm around Griph's shoulders. The younger man reacted violently, physically shoving his uncle away from him, his hands clenched into fists and his stance instantly shifting into combat-readiness. He tensed, preparing to hit the other man if he touched him again.
"Huh? C'mon now buddy, we're all supposed to be pals now. Can't afford to be treating our brother man like shit anymore, you roj? Hunter's bones, it's Christmas man!" There was a friendly quality in Harabec's voice, he seemed somewhat numb to Griph's harsh response.
"You've disgraced our family, traitor."
Silence reigned for a moment, and then recognition dawned in Harabec's clouded eyes. "You… it's you, isn't it? One of Cay's boys?" His uncle laughed now, a warm sound, genuine and enthusiastic, and Griph could not help but feel some unknown memory as the sound pulled at him, and something buried inside of him for years resurfaced. Still, he retained his combative stance, unwilling to let the stain of dishonor go. Griph said nothing but returned a cold stare at his uncle.
"I know it's one of you, buddy. I can tell you're a Weathers. Is it… Hector? Sorry but I'ma little drunk right now. Can't ya just let this 'honor' thing drop for once and give your uncle Bek a hug?" As Griph stared at him, he seemed to sway in place, tired, inebriated and, something in his tone belied deep guilt. It was too much, and Griph had to respond. At first his voice stuck in his through, and he coughed. Then he tried again.
"It's Griphon, uncle." There was so much more he wanted to say than just simply that – Griph wanted to explode, to launch a tirade against this man who'd dragged half the Empire's troops out to this damned red planet because he suffered from delusions of grandeur and independence. A man who was foolish enough to think he could ever triumph over the combined might of the Empire. But the words simply would not come. Instead, he could only feel the bitter tears coursing down his cheeks. Griph couldn't remember later how exactly he ended up in Bek's embrace, the men who shared the bond of blood crying onto each other's shoulders.
"S'okay Griph, let it on out. You're a good man, nephew, nothin' can change that. I'm… sorry about all this." Griph smelt the whisky on Bek's breath, drew back and wiped the moisture from his own face.
"I… this whole war… why's it got to be this way?" Griph stared questioningly at Harabec, the latter shaking his head sadly.
"I don't know Griphon, I wish I had the answers. Caanon – your dad… he won't talk to me. He's been avoiding me ever since the surrender. But we don't have any other option, we're in this together. All of us. Me, you, him… everyone. This is our fight Griph. I'm tellin' ya… the human race doesn't know what it's in for. It's not going to be a damn thing like we've ever seen before."
October 2830
Griph made his way through the narrow corridor, squeezing past an aide heading in the opposite direction. The Long Patrol base was currently serving as the headquarters of Alliance command, yet the facilities were cramped almost beyond belief. The influx of refugees from Mars and Venus had stretched the capacity of this base and other corporate mining camps dotting the region. Making things worse for him was the fact that the layout of the internal structure was absolutely mazelike in its design, causing Griph to question whether the Navy had designed this place to be a labyrinth for any particular reason. He almost at once found himself entering through a large security door, whisking aside for him as he gave his voiceprint. "Enter."
Following his own command he stepped into a small briefing room, probably chosen by Harabec for its conveniently low profile and out of the way location. It was only slightly larger than his office back in Nova Alexandria had been; and it was far more sparsely furnished. As he let himself in, he saw Bek speaking with another man, both leaning over a table examining maps and a star chart of some kind. Behind them a holoprojector was displaying figures and facts on a readout display Griph could barely comprehend.
"I don't know Trent, I think you're really overestimating the amount of time we have here, they've already swept through the Jovian system like hell for leather and we're going to be next." Bek had just finished saying.
"They'll keep." said the other man, whom Griph could see was fairly tall (by Terran standards) and dark-haired like Bek, although his was neatly parted and he bore a darker, more serious expression. For his part Harabec was all business as well, clearly attentive to what he was saying. "We've got some very skilled Imperial troop detachments up there, aided by a relatively unknown factor, although it's safe to say these guys will help us fight the 'brids, after all they just beat the tar out of them at Venga Linea…" he trailed off. He glanced at Griph, the door closing behind him now, and then at the Alliance commander, as if to question whether it was safe to continue. Bek smiled.
"Don't mind him Trent, he's one of us." said Harabec disarmingly.
"Right here, right now, that could mean anything." Trent said humorlessly. But Bek would not be sobered, grinning at Griph in an attempt to make him feel more comfortable.
"Forgive Trent here Griph. He's a special advisor on temporary loan to us from his… organization." Griph gave the man an appraising look, and could feel the same being given to him, although whatever cold judgment the man had formed, it was not visible on his face. Griph silently hoped he was concealing his own feelings half as well. "Trent, Griphon Weathers, my nephew. We're all kith and kin here, right? Please go on." Trent merely nodded to Griph, no surprise evident on his face, if he felt any.
"Right then. A few months back several Knight swords were sent to train with this force calling themselves the 'Tarazedi,' a very Zen type whose origins are largely unknown. They claim to be from outside Sol but none of my sources can verify – might well have been from some forgotten colony in the outer system. They're concentrated here, on Europa." Trent's eyes narrowed and he gestured to a point on the star chart, marked by a simple thumbtack. "Whoever they are exactly, they made an arrangement with His Imperial Majesty; sharing some very strange technology with us and instructing Knights, mostly Rose Azure, in their tactics and methodology. Apparently it works, since the first enemy landings there this June were a real embarrassment for the toasters. After some prolonged fighting which we still don't have completely accurate reports on, the Tarazedi seem to have gone rabbit and bloodied the glitch bastards enough to make them withdraw to… here."
Trent picked up a red thumbtack from a small pile, stuck it on the chart. "Seems the 'Zedi pursued. Fighting hasn't really heated up yet, probably both sides deciding if Io is actually important to them or not, and what combat assets, if any, to transfer over." Bek rubbed his chin, and squinted at the chart. Griph had only a cursory idea of what was going on – he was a tactician, not a strategist – but he could tell that this Trent guy knew his stuff, whoever he was. What kind of corporate knows this kind of thing in such detail? He thought to himself.
