"Prometheus isn't stupid, for Hunter's sake. Fine, he's scouted the Jovian system, he's sent out his feelers. But he's got to know that this is the place to hit, Titan's gotta be the real focus. Why is he going to waste the time and effort to buildup some forces on Europa and Io and continue fighting there, especially if these guys are as good as you say? Wouldn't it simply be more efficient to knock us out here first?" Trent crossed his arms in front of his chest, eyes glued to the map as he responded.

"Number of reasons, I could see. First, the Jovian system contains some nice places for listening bases. The toasters control it all, and the arks probably won't have a chance of escaping Sol." The tall man's tone was matter of fact, as though he were stating the obvious. "Second, we have to consider that this may not be about efficiency at all. The Cybrids show some weird tendencies to try and test themselves and each other. When some sects believe they've found a worthy foe, rooting them out and the eventual triumph becomes an obsession. If that's the case, no telling how much they may end up committing. In any case I've personally seen both the Wolf Pack and the Ninth in action, and I think they can buy you the time you need." Despite much of the strategic babble being far over his head, Griph recognized both the name of the Wolf Pack and the Ninth Imperial Legion, they were elite TDF units with exemplary combat records.

"I still plan to launch the intended rescue missions on the Jovian moons. Those shaves and chays deserve better than to be left to fend for themselves." said Bek, almost defiantly, and for a brief moment Griph saw what had made him such an ideal rebel general. Then to his surprise Harabec turned to him and looked him straight in the eye. "Griph here will be leading them. He'll stop over at Callisto, Ganymede and Europa and supervise the transfer of civilian assets back here, then he'll rendezvous with whoever's there and hit Io last. We need to bring as many back here as possible."

This was news to Griph, and he was somewhat surprised and disappointed – after all the Jovian system was the absolute backwater, even out here. He would much rather remain on Titan with Harabec, although he trusted his uncle enough to know what assignment he could do the most good at. Trent merely shrugged. "I think it's a good idea, pull whatever civvies you can back to work on the project, but I don't think a lot of these boys and ghels are going to want to be rescued. These are some small, tightly knit units of people we're talking about here, detachments who've have been freezing their asses off in the Jovian system for months or years now. You're going to be a little late."

Harabec replied with his trademark smile, the stereotypical kind of herc-jockey grin that would make all the young women swoon. "Better late than never."

* * *

Less than an hour later, Griph had been fully briefed and understood the mission well. Still less than enthusiastic, and with his head still spinning from the rapid discussion, he took his leave of the briefing room, to head to the herc bay and supervise the refit his Basilisk for combat duty. He was to depart in just two days, and time was of the essence. Weapons less efficient in the thing atmosphere were being replaced or tweaked, and the entire vehicle needed tuning. As he entered the large hanger, he made his way over to where his Basilisk was "parked," with scaffolding arranged for engineers who had already begun to work on switch the various components and equipment necessary for the trip. His tech chief, Cid Aarons, was part of the Long Patrol support personnel, and was waiting for him dataslate in hand.

"Heya boss, we were just strippin' her down. Need you to check off what slots you need us to fill, linked firing chains, as well as any special requests. You know the drill." Cid was a decent fellow, and Griph was confident in the team to select an effective load out, considering that he'd never operated in conditions this alien to Earth's before. The boxes were already checked according to Griph's past preferences, and although he reviewed each one he knew already they were the best options. Nodding as he completed the cursory check he handed the slate back to the tech.

"How bad are these conditions, really? Relative to say, Titan." he asked, something he hadn't quite thought about until now. Harabec's briefing had contained the term 'harsh conditions,' and Griph began to wonder now if that was not another classic military understatement.

"Well," said Cid, "I've been to Europa and Ganymede before on business. Imagine hell froze over – that's pretty much how it is. Similar to here but without the orange clouds." Griph frowned.

"And Io?"

"Well, imagine hell didn't quite freeze over."

Griph was quickly becoming sour with the idea of this mission, realized again why exactly it was termed a rescue mission. "Not funny." he said.

"I didn't think it was so bad, myself." Griph swirled around to see Trent standing behind him. The look of surprise on his face must have been evident, because the man laughed.

"See? At least this guy's got a sense of humor." said Cid, before turning back to the other techs to issue orders. Trent smiled at the man, and then returned his attention to Griph.

"Just wanted to wish you luck out there, Griphon. I'm afraid your techie was right, the Jovian system's a rugged and unforgiving place." Griph grunted.

"I'm sure I'll live." he replied, still annoyed at being taken by surprise.

"So I hope." said Trent, quite seriously. He paused. "Harabec thinks very highly of you, you know." Griph nodded. He knew Harabec had a soft spot for him, trusted him. But he sure wasn't getting any easy assignments either. Looking into the man's dark eyes, Griphon felt decidedly strange – that 'Trent' knew far more than he was letting on, or even more than he himself wished he knew. The man offered his hand, tearing Griph's thoughts away from whatever secrets lay locked behind those eyes inside his mind. Griph shook it, both had a firm grip, and Trent gave a look of approval. Then he turned and walked off, in the direction of the black Gorgon he'd arrived in, that he'd forbidden the engineers and technician staff to touch.

Turning to Cid, Griph felt mildly uncomfortable. "Who the hell is that guy anyway?" he asked.

Cid shrugged in response. "Dunno really. Word around base is that he's one of those government men-in-black types." Griph stared, watching him walk away and into the shadows of one of the hanger's many recesses.

"Hmph."


June 2831

Cid's description of Io hadn't been an exaggeration. The tiny moon was about as close to the biblical description of hell as one could get, without the figurative demons. One could even imagine those without much difficulty, peering out into the snowstorm of volcanic ash and molten particulates, seeing or imagining the dark twisting shapes within the sulfurous cloud and waiting for the masked shadowy form of a Cybrid herc to emerge, weapons ablaze. It was a strange affect which the planet had upon Griph, one of heightened fear and inherent tenseness, nothing like the mind numbing conformity and dullness of the icy landscapes of the other Jovian moons.

The trips to Callisto and Ganymede had been uneventful, mostly. Callisto had been the proverbial ghost town, Ganymede's civilians mostly making due speed to Europa. It was there where things had really become interesting, when Griph had become acquainted with the leaders of the so-called Tarazedi Alliance, the dominant faction in the area. Detachments of Knights from the famed Wolf Pack and the crack 7th and Ninth Imperial Legions had allied themselves with the Tarazedi, and together they had fought hard to keep the Cybrids out of the Jovian system. Griph had held audience with them, and learned that Harabec's advisor had been right – everyone seemed bitter at being abandoned by the Empire, and he had only narrowly been able to convince them to consider themselves members of the greater Human Alliance. Even then they would not report to Griph's chain of command but acted independently, as the self-proclaimed Jovian Alliance taskforce.

Despite the entrenchment on Europa, the magnificent Tarazedi base beneath the liquid nitrous sea, Griph knew that the Jovian system had only survived thus far because of its insignificance. The glitches would try again in due time, but starvation, radiation and sensor blindness could be the death of them all sooner than that anyway. Determined not to let up the pressure the Jovian Alliance had relocated what forces it could, mainly Tarazedi, to Io. Griph had accompanied them, both as a show of goodwill and because his own mission involved helping the Jovians any way he could.

And so here he was, staring nervously towards an ash storm not far from the molten lake of Loki Patera. Ahead of him lay a volcanic plain, dotted by occasional solitary mountains and blackish, blasted ash heaps caked-over with SO2 frosts. A particularly massive mountain overlooking the lake loomed ominously on the horizon. The very landscape itself seemed something bizarre and macabre, with the stars above seemingly crowded out by the massive angry face of Jupiter and its thousands of swirling red and orange storms. Where Jupiter met the horizon it was somewhat hard to tell where Io's thin molten crust stopped and the gas giant began. Blinking, Griph tried to re-orient himself, and he remembered the chief Tarazedi lessons. Focus. Balance. Calm.

His guides certainly seemed calm enough, although they were silent. A harsh black and red Apocalypse, the harsh ancient-looking Tarazedi script running along its side in bold red letters, pulled up beside Griph's Basilisk. Behind them the rest of the patrol, a Tarazedi Minotaur and Gorgon, stood vigilantly. Griph glanced again at his sensors – nothing but a few false positives and rogue energy signatures. The high radiation on Io made sensors next to useless, especially, during periods of explosive volcanic activity and Griph returned to eyeballing the vista in front of him for enemies.

"They're out there, somewhere." he said softly.

"Siya, estudiax. That is certain." the Tarazedi next to him replied. The Tarazedi chose to address him by his rank, despite the fact that they both shared the same status and Terran birth. The man in the Apocalypse was not a Tarazedi by nature, but rather an Imperial who had spent the past months out amongst the 'Zedi, learning their ways and becoming a better soldier. Apparently he was a diplomatic or intelligence attaché who had traveled all over Sol before choosing to stay here. Griph had forgotten his real name, but all of the men out here called him Petrax. From what he'd learned of the Tarazedi language it meant "the Rock," a reference to the man's own personal and moral strength.

"These agrakz cannot hide forever. When the storm lifts we can begin our assault." The voice came from the Minotaur pilot, a female whom Griph knew as Mundax. She was the tetrax tactician, and Griph had learned to respect her very quickly. Her voice had a calming affect on him as well, reassuring him. The stoicism of the Tarazedi was truly amazing, not just themselves but the way they transferred it into those around them.

"It's impossible to see anything in this damn mess." said Griph, feeling less pensive but now annoyed at having to wait longer before the confrontation.

Mundax sensed his frustration. "Calm yourself Pugnax. We must have patience… endurance… strength. The enemy is surrounded. They have nowhere to go." She used his Tarazedi name, "the Fist," given to him because of his drive to engage the Cybrids whenever possible. He thought this was an endearing and soldierly quality, had always been taught so, but when he had spoken to the Tarazedi komandtr, he had said that Griph displayed a thirst for combat which could easily become a desire for vengeance. Is wanting to distinguish oneself really that bad? He thought.

"Naya Mundax, they have no haven now outside of Loki. But that also means there is nowhere to go but out." said Petrax. "I believe they will give use battle sooner than you think, perhaps before the storms have fully lifted. Were I in their position I would not wish to settle down for an inevitable siege."

Hardly sooner had the Tarazedi spoken than Griph picked up increased activity on his sensors. Before he could say anything, transmissions from the opposite side of Loki Patera began to flood in, disrupted by the static of the storm but still audible.

"This is forward patrol thirteen, Seventh Legion, location Loki Patera North. We are under concentrated attack, repeat, heavy attack –"

"Forward patrol six, Ninth Legion, Loki Patera West, we got enemy contacts confirmed heading four-seven-seven, toasters comin' in—"

"Die efficiently, human\\animals. Cybrid Assault Network, execute new directive subroutine. EXECUTE!"

"This is TAC-COM, Loki Patera region, forward combat patrols three through twenty reporting increased enemy activity on all fronts. Any available units please respond; repeat, glitches are attempting a breakout attack from Loki, all combat units respond at once!"

The battle of Loki had begun.

* * *

"!Eya Tazarad!" The Tarazedi battle cry rang in Griph's ears as he attempted to acquire a target lock on the Adjudicator barreling towards him. Squeezing the trigger he sent compression lasers lancing out towards his foe, but the heavy herc's frontal shields shrugged off the assault. The missile locking box hovered frustratingly between green and yellow, refusing to become red. Can't waste any time, thought Griph, using his free hand to switch off the targeting computer. Though he had precious few missiles, he'd rather take his chances dumb-firing them than miss on account of bad targeting systems. Pressing the launch button he sent a pair of missiles screaming towards the 'brid, was rewarded when his enemy seemed to lose his nerve and swerved to the side. One of the missiles slammed into the herc's side, causing a massive explosion, the other sailed harmlessly into Io's surface.

But his enemy had turned and Griph now had the advantage, throttling up to full speed and angling the herc on an oblique so as to get behind the glitch, hurling more green-tinted lasers as he went. Timing was everything now – at just the right moment he turned again, throwing himself into reverse and veering hard to the left. Griph got lucky – the Cybrid had foolishly decided to finish executing its turn to the right, leaving Griph directly behind it. He took full advantage, raking the enemy with lasers and sending another linked pair of missiles straight into his exposed reactor casing. The explosion was not audible, but it was spectacular, and Griph's cockpit shook as he continued directly through the Cybrid's still-flaming wreckage, the upswing of the Basilisk's feet scattering wreckage and sending it flying.

Now it was Griph's turn to take punishment, and he felt the herc shudder from impacts on his rear shields. With a curse he throttled up, weaving this way and that over the uneven ground. "Got one on my six!" he cried, hoping a nearby 'Zed would spy his position and offer assistance.

"Estudiax," said Petrax urgently. "Do as I say and turn and fire!" Griph hesitated slightly, unsure of the advice. Turning to face the Cybrid, he'd lose momentum, be exposed for several seconds to the enemy's guns, and if it the enemy carried heavy firepower like an Executioner or Adjudicator, he might not survive such a maneuver. More hits on his rear shield signaled that there was no time to think. Swiveling around, he turned to face his foe, seeming painfully slow despite the fact that the turn took just a few seconds. As predicted he took fire the entire time, from what he saw was a Shepherd herc. To his relief however he saw a chain of missiles, lasers and autocannon fire from Petrax's Apocalypse tear the outclassed herc to pieces. He was about to thank Petrax for his help when the 'Zed yelled out another warning.

"Keep moving!" he shouted harshly. Quickly Griph saw why – a heavy quad of Cybrids was assaulting the tetrax, and as Griph turned himself one-hundred-eighty degrees to face the area he had just been running towards, he spied two of the dreaded, beetle-like Executioners cresting an ash-heap, followed by a Shepherd and the smaller insect-like tank called a Bolo. "Pull back, yiviad!" Griph instantly obliged, throwing his herc into reverse and backpedaling, missile trails streaking out towards the group along with pulsing bolts of green lasers and red tracer cannons from the two Alliance hercs.

The Cybrids were already firing as well, and the deadly crossfire that was produced lit up the entire area with the hue of red, green and purple death. Griph's computers beeped warnings at him as his shields went down and reactor strained to keep up energy output. Breathing hard he flipped the backup shield amplifier, restoring as much frontal protection as he could. Glancing at the HUD display he saw most of his herc displayed in saffron hues, left shoulder in crimson. We're not going to make it… he realized, stared straight ahead at the oncoming hercs which would spell his death.

Then the hand of fate, or God, or whatever cosmic laws of balance the Tarazedi believe govern the universe kicked in. The approaching Cybrids, overconfident, continued their advance across the ground when suddenly the Bolo threw one of its treads, bouncing unevenly along the area. Petrax sent missiles soaring out… and Griph noticed them strike the ground rather than the enemy hercs. The explosion blew holes in the brittle crust, and in a blast of chemical pressure a rush of gas shot up from cracks forming in the ground, now cracking and revealing a small molten lake beneath the surface. So this was why Petrax told me not to walk on that area! thought Griph, now fully grasping the situation. He targeted the ground directly in front of the heavy hercs and tore into it with a punishing fire – as his tetrax joined in, the ground gave way, dumping the entire Cybrid quad down into the molten pocket in an incredible series of splashes.
As air bubbled up through the lava, the lake hissed up great plumes of gas and sheets of flame symbolic of that special fire, the zanrax, in every Tarazedi heart.


November 2831

They had called it the Dies Irae project, meaning the "Day of Wrath." With the recent massive Cybrid buildup on Titan, Griphon couldn't find reason to disagree with that assessment. "It's going to be one hell of a fight." he said, surveying the line of defenses from the cockpit of his well-recognized Basilisk. None of the soldiers in his command offered a response, standing silent guard over this area, each of them solid veterans. Using his cameras to zoom in on the most vulnerable areas of the line, he rubbed at the stubble of beard on his face. The Cinquini Plain was a large, open sheet of ice that was significantly elevated above a canyon several kilometers to the east. It was the staging area for the Dies Irae "arks" and the particle beam projector which would guide them into orbit. Griph had been directed by Harabec and his father to hold this sector of the line, to prevent the 'brids from flanking the central position.

He'd been assigned a motley mix of fighters comprising about a Pennant's worth of hercs, but all were known to be reliable veterans. Each group seemed to have its own unique quirks; the New Terran Defense Force all claimed to have some common heritage linked to the crash of a TDF ship near Neptune years ago, the Stormkeeper Order had their strange religious rituals, and the survivors of Mercury and Venus could never seem to stop talking about their own local heroes, guerillas on Mercury who dared to keep up the struggle and fought the Cybrids like ghosts with hit and fade tactics, and of course the esteemed "Guardian One" who along with Caanon had dragged them all from certain death to the safety of Titan.

Nonetheless, heroes were good for morale. Word had spread quickly of his service on the Jovian moons, and the men and women under Griph's command all had confidence in him. Still, he worried about letting them down. He'd never had such a large command before, but he was applying what principles he'd learned from the Tarazedi and the organizational skills of the Legionaries to set up his forces in an ideal position; he'd set the two squads of Stormkeepers to hold a vital chokepoint controlling trails up from the canyon in case the Cybrids decided to try to sneak infantry forces behind the Dies Irae that way, while positioning the bulk of his forces northwest of the particle beam. Caanon and Harabec's point defense forces were holding the beam itself, while the majority of his forces kept the plains clear so that no reinforcements could reach Bek and Caanon's position without crossing through his makeshift pennant.

The overall mood was rather tense, but Griph knew that the waiting was probably worse than the battle itself would be. Whether we live or die, that really doesn't matter at this point. The arks carry the hope of all humanity… maybe our suffering will allow these people to have a prosperous future and restore the balance, he thought.

"C'mon you scorchin' tin cans, bring it on! Us filthy animals are dying of old age down here!" said some unruly Veen, probably from the Guardian Defense Force. GDF was comprised of spirited and skilled militia of the Umbral Thorn, the Venusian rebel arm, but sometimes had difficult curbing their enthusiasm in favor of discipline. Griph had become well acquainted with their commander after a series of disciplinary actions had been threatened due to the GDF rivalry with another Venusian unit, the Oberwind Irregulars.
"
Cut the chatter people!" responded Griph quickly, knowing that one slip of discipline would simply invite more. "Stratus, please keep your men quiet."

"Roj that. Zip it guys."

Griph returned his attention to scanning the murky skyline. Suddenly the warning came through from TAC-COM. "Spysats just went offline. All units prepare, the Cybrids are landing." The comms briefly hummed with nervous chatter, the squad leaders whispering encouragements to their mates, and this time Griph did not quiet them. They knew well enough themselves to listen up for orders and stay sharp, and after a few seconds they did. About half a minute later Griph could see the first white and blue tinged streaks of Cybrid drop pods in the sky. They looked like majestic comets or shooting stars descending onto Titan's surface, and as he glanced up he could count dozens now. Christ and Hunter…he thought. How many toasters are they gonna dump on us?

The flash of repeated weapons fire in the direction of the sprawling Cinquini plain now answered Griph's unspoken question for him. The first wave was landing. "All units, move to assist engaged units of Sable Phoenix. Stay on the bounce people, we've got incoming!" As Griph turned his herc towards the scene of the fighting and punched the throttle, the hopes and dreams of the entire human race went with him and his warriors.


July 2834

The Imperial capital city of Nova Alexandria was ablaze around him. Maneuvering the herc down the street was utterly heartbreaking. These were the thoroughfares of his youth, laid to waste by the metal monsters which had invaded his home and the homes of people all across this solar system. Swallowing hard he resolved himself not to show weakness, but the truth was that he could barely keep back the tears. He felt like he was choking, and the sense of deep shock and melancholy only grew with each new street and avenue, each row of shattered buildings reduced from homes and theaters and cafes and candy stores to twisted and ruined heaps of metal and broken ceracrete.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. There should have been better times ahead. After the Dies Irae mission had succeeded brilliantly, the arks being catapulted away to find a better future in some distant place, and the Cybrids beaten back by what Griph felt was the sheer spirit of his troops, there had been an even longer shot at victory. The famed Cardinal Spear mission had departed, leaving Griph to command the forces on Titan. At Eskandani Chasm the battle had been fierce but out of the jaws of defeat had come victory – the news that Prometheus had been destroyed, that the mission had been a success. As they'd pursued the Cybrids and knocked them out of the Jovian system, there was no question that a turning point had been reached.

It hadn't been a stainless victory. Harabec was dead, some cryptic message and his frozen bodiless head all that remained of his uncle, the great Knight. In the difficult days ahead his loss would indeed be felt. With Caanon's return had come the mustering of the relief force to burn for Earth, equipped with cache tech and all the strength that the outer system could muster. It was all or nothing.

Last month the ships had arrived, enhanced by cache tech modifications to their engines, and the orbital battle over terra mater had been renewed. Although the Alliance fleet had caught the Cybrids by surprise, some of the Armada still remained, and the fighting was still going on even now. If the Alliance lost the battle, all the ground forces which had landed in the HALO attack on Nova Alexandria would be compromised. But that was not something Griph was worried about – it was not his place to worry about it. He knew that he had to stay focused on the job at hand, namely, clearing out the streets of his old city. After this much time the glitches had been forced to withdraw to the city limits – the allied troops were surrounded, but Griph knew that being surrounded wasn't the worst thing that could happen. He remembered the tenacity of the Cybrids at Loki, thought, We can do you one better, you glitch bastards. And so like a shark his division had grabbed hold of the city center and refused to let go.

Now though, the adrenaline was gone, and Griph was barely staving off exhaustion. Weeks of fighting had left him bereaved and hollow-eyed, forced to tour the streets of the beloved city that he knew, and to look upon its piteous condition. Now he approached John W. Dixon Avenue, and from here he could see the once-great Imperial Palace, the gleaming golden pyramid now smoking and smoldering still. An entire side of the grand structure had crumpled inward, and as he watched another piece of the uppermost spire flaked off, caving in upon itself in a sheet of grey smoke and dust. At the site of it Griph had to physically struggle to strangle the sob in his throat. Not now Griph. Later… mourn later.

The Basilisk continued to make its way slowly down the avenue, the scarred city unfolding before it. Behind Griph was a squad of Caanon's finest knights, bodyguards for the Grandmaster's son. As he made his way towards the next block, a handful of TDF commandos were visible moving out onto the street, deploying in front of him. Griph brought his herc to a stop, speaking into his comm. "This is Knight-Captain Griphon Weathers. Please identify yourselves."

"Knight-Captain Weathers… this area is being sealed off. You're approaching glitch territory. But I'd be pleased if you'd come down and see me." Griph sat paralyzed in his cockpit for a minute, shocked again. He knew the voice. It belonged to Patience Fairchild.

Without asking permission he crouched the Basilisk next to a partially destroyed building, popping the cockpit and practically leaping out onto the structure's partially destroyed roof. He flew down the building's flight of stairs, running the four floors to the ground level, and reaching the street in less than a minute's time. Patience was already waiting for him, her helmet tucked beneath her left arm and a candlegun slung on a strap across her back. Griph ripped his own helmet off and drew her into a tight embrace. In her arms he felt warm, safe, and sane for the first time in weeks.

* * *

Many hugs and kisses later, the two Knights sat talking on the steps of a ruined government office building. Debris littered the street, and Griph could hardly help but contrast the ugliness of the decimated surroundings with Patience's beauty. "I missed you so much." he said, words wholly inaccurate to the depth of his feelings. She merely smiled.

"I know Griph. It's been tough. I was lucky to survive this long, at least I feel it is." He nodded, eyes not leaving her. She bit her lip. "A few days ago we infiltrated the Palace. We found the Emperor's wombchair. It was… empty. Burn marks everywhere. He's got to be dead Griph." She began to cry, an unusual sight for any Azure Rose Knight, but then again these were not ordinary times. Griph put his arms around her and cradled her.

"Everything is going to be alright. I'm here now Patience. We're together."


June 2835

The crowds cheered, and the throng pressed close to the balcony in the Imperial Plaza, partially restored to be presentable for an event as important as this; the Coronation of Caanon Weathers and Second Emperor of the Great Human Empire. The mood was celebratory despite the bitter carnage which had brought about the change in regime, the deep and visible scars that still marked most of the city. Despite it all, humanity had persevered, the will to survive stronger than the cold calculating circuitry of the Cybrid invaders. Once again, animal tenacity had triumphed. The sheer force of the human spirit had somehow, someway, defeated the metal horde.

---