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.

"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.

"And let this one singular event, the passing along of the faculties of government to a new leader, and our nod to the due process of Imperial law, stand as a reminder to both ourselves and our timeless foe; although this war is not over and many dark days undoubtedly lay ahead of us, there is only one path for us now for us to follow – and that is the path forward: to victory." There was thunderous, deafening applause, accompanied by much whistling and yells of overwhelming approval from the gathered mass of humanity, the universal acceptance and love of the great hero Caanon. This was the man who had already given all that he had, including his brother and two of his sons, to this terrible war.

Behind him, slightly below the dais stood Griphon, and next to him his beautiful new bride, Patience Weathers-Fairchild. Out of honor of the Fairchild name they had decided it would be hyphenated, and to honor Caanon's ascension to Emperor the wedding had been earlier the same day. It was the happiest day of Griph's life, and his father had seemed more excited about his son's wedding than his own political triumph. Hector was there as well, served as Griph's best man at the wedding. Hector wore even more medals than Griph, all in the service of defending the Empire; he looked incredible in his Knight-Commander's uniform, the tall, dashing, gallant, officer with a surprising sensitivity to both matters of family honor and political affairs, something Griph could never bring himself to master. "I have never been more proud of you little brother." Those had been his words at the cathedral. "A grand ceremony for a grand couple." Hector had kissed Patience's hand, causing Griph to flush red. But if the gesture was embarrassing, what he had said to Patience when it came time to say the vows was true – he had truly never been happier than he was today.

His father turned away from the podium now, was stepping off the dais, nodding and waving to the jubilant people below, shaking the hands of a few particular close supporters and family friends, including the Fairchild family. Of course, he was there too, his other brother, the middle-brother whose name he would not allow himself to say or even think anymore. Hector had told him later that it was a silly notion – the real him had been dead years before it happened, bore no responsibility. Hector was right, but still… Griph couldn't bring himself to think of him.

As Caanon turned towards them now, smiling, Griph returned it, beaming to see the same thin crown embossed with the Imperial Angel resting on his father's head. Then the middle brother stepped forward, extended his hand, and he seemed to question – saw out of the corner of his eye the mortified look on Hector's face, the Knight-Commander pitching forward, suspended in motion as though time had slowed to a crawl. The outreached hand was obscured from Griph's view now, but the sound of the two shots as they rang out were unmistakable; and then he was down, tackled to the floor by Hector. Griph was moving now too, but it seemed like it wasn't him at all but some master puppeteer moving his body for him. He seemed to move as if swimming through gelatin. The weapon had been wrestled away from his struggling brother now, and the new Emperor sank to his knees, his white robes stained red with the blood drawn by his own son.

Then the people pressed in from all sides, and the frantic rush in the air returned time to an incomprehensible, whirlwind pace. The Emperor was surrounded, being whisked away for emergency treatment, while the Imperial Police apprehended the culprit, Griph's own brother, and only seconds later the lamentation of the crowds drowned out the NewNet drones blaring out the news of the attempted assassination.


April 2845

The planet loomed large in the eye of the dropship's external camera, the blue-grey orb specked with thin white wispy clouds taking up almost the entire view screen. Griph glanced at it, thought, Just another world to be claimed by the Empire. His real focus was on the satellite maps of the drop zone. He'd learned fast that reliable intelligence was important in any battle or war, and this one was no exception. The material was supposed to be good this time, not always the case these days. With Imperials jumping the gun and the Colonials chomping at the bit for a chance to get a whack at the toasters, the men on the ground could sometimes find themselves facing either more resistance than expected or an empty world – although, the latter option didn't seem very likely to Griph in this case.

The truth was that the Cybrids had an important nexus in this sector, and this was the most likely place for it to be, even without the satellite evidence the probes had gathered. True, a scout force hadn't actually touched the surface yet, but that was his job. That's what the Organization was for, these days. What he'd joined it for, anyway.

He ran another diagnostic. Everything was running in the green, optimal performance, checked, calibrated, defragged, cleaned and ready to go. Griph sighed. It was the waiting which always got to him.


December 2837

The array of Knight hercs crouched silently in the snowy mountainous area, ready to ambush the next Cybrid supply caravan that attempted to run the pass. The damned glitches had managed to slip one through a week ago, but by now they'd need more replacement parts, especially due to the recent harsh Rocky Mountains weather. Turned out the machines didn't fair much better than the human beings in a blizzard. So much for biological weakness, you fucking monsters, thought Griph. At least I've got warm blood and a beating heart inside of me you cold metal pricks. Now we're going to hit you right where it hurts – right in the goddamned anti-freeze.

Snow was falling hard now, but this wasn't like Io's snow – this wasn't radioactive and corrosive chemicals that would throw off sensors or destroy a herc's components over time. True, one had to watch the temperatures to ensure that no hardpoints froze up, though that was unlikely unless the herc had taken damage, since the internal systems were largely self-regulating. Visibility was rather low, but that hardly mattered to Griph. He was good at this by now, staking out a target, making the sensor instruments an extension of himself and running entirely on intuition. He was a hunter, and the Cybrids were his prey. He was a natural predator; he was Blood Eagle.

Joining the Order had been a difficult decision, but Griph had felt it to be his duty. When the Furious Stars were wiped out, he had felt something inside of him snap. They'd taken so many innocent lives already, good men and women, and now his old Knight Order as well… Hector's warnings about the Blood Eagle and Patience's pleading had meant nothing in the end. He wanted a crack at the same Cybrids who'd killed so many of his brothers in arms, the very 'brids that the Blood Eagle forces were relocated to fight here in North America. So many of those Furious Stars met their deaths not at the hands of enemy guns but with a knife in the back from their own comrades; Trojan Horse infiltration into the officer corps had been nearly fifty percent.

His brother had been a Trojan Horse too – nobody knew for how long. Hector had thought he knew when the switch occurred and their brother was no longer their brother but an alien wearing their brother's skin as his own. It was irrelevant now. The only thing that mattered was what was going on in front of him, who was to die today, what horrible new tactic would be unveiled in a war that was every bit as much about taking souls as taking lives. The Cybrids had shown how truly soulless they were, smashing a meteor into the Pacific that had caused tsunami waves to ravage the PacRim and the west coast of the North American Prefecture. And for their part, the Blood Eagle had become ever more brutal towards their own men. Griph shuddered and closed his eyes as he tried not to remember some of the things he had seen, some of the things still going on at the Blood Eagle barracks near Denver…

No respect for the dead – just for the killing. It was selfish, Griph knew, and barbaric – he refused to take part in the consumption of a comrade, no matter the circumstances. Nonetheless there was precious little to eat; and if anyone had earned the right to be selfish it was the Blood Eagle. It was only their heroic, titanic efforts which kept the NorthAm front from collapsing completely. The Cybrids still held Denver though, and without that vital supply and control center, it was going to be rough going. Oh well, one thing at a time. 'Vape this convoy, then the next… and in the spring we make a push for Denver again. We're in this for the long haul.

In the meantime it was the duty of the Blood Eagle to enter the heart of darkness, confront the evil there and purge it. They were like ancient exorcists, in their own way, bound by sacred duty yet free to employ whatever methods worked – even the most brutal. Effectiveness over compassion – and so what if they were losing their humanity? For a small group to lose that so the rest could keep it seemed an even trade.

He glanced at the men around him. These were real fighters, his Eagles. Nearby him were two Apocalypses and a Myrmidon, cloaked and silent, barely visible except for the snow drifts accumulating on their surfaces, outlining them in the snow. It wouldn't matter – visibility was too low to notice that kind of detail at the distance the 'brids would approach from. Looking at a trench cut dug into the snow in front of him, Griph felt sympathy for the infantry manning the firing positions, and those ready to go over the top and begin assaulting the 'brids and carting off salvage. In his Basilisk's cockpit he was already cold; the men on the ground must have been freezing.

Economy of force in these conditions and to maintain surprise dictated that operations should not involve much more than a sword of hercs, and Griph had positioned himself with the squad closest the pass, the ones who would begin firing first whenever the enemy appeared. As always, timing would be crucial. Still, these were reliable soldiers, he'd been fighting with them all spring and summer – and among their ranks even at this moment were men who had fought against the infamous SCORPIO unit of hunter-killers in Nova Alexandria. Griph tightened his grip around the herc's control stick and narrowed his eyes. He had confidence in the men… in the mission… and yes, Cybrid predictability.

He sensed the movement from the mouth of the pass even before he saw it. Then his sensors picked it up, then at last he saw it, black shapes in the distance… growing closer by the second. Comm silence was absolute, so Griph shifted the feet of his Basilisk from side to side slowly, the signal to get ready. The men on the ground manned the low-profile anti-herc turrets and sat up against the edge of the trench. An agonizing five minutes passed as the convoy crawled closer and closer. A little more… come on, that's it, right into the kill zone gearheads…

"Now! Carve the bastards!" The Basilisk had uncloaked and was firing before Griph consciously knew he had pulled the trigger. Highly concentrated EMPs and a stream of autocannon bullets slashed into the lead sentries, Shepherds unsurprisingly. The most common form of escort, the Shepherd was fairly versatile and could pack firepower, but it didn't stand up well when ambushed – it didn't seem to ever be quite fast enough to escape that first hail of firepower. This particular Shepherd wasn't either, as the concentrated attacks of Griph's squad, as well as supporting infantry, tore the machine's right leg off, causing it to topple into the snow and cripple its pilotform.

The second the attack had commenced, huge searchlights rigged to shine on the snow flickered to life, spotlighting targets in the evening dark, and blinding the Cybrids in the reflective snow of the blizzard. Picking out another escort, this one a lighter Goad model, Griph also noted the size of the convoy, thought, Hunter's bones, we've hit the mother lode this time! He triggered off another volley of linked fire, this one eviscerating the already shield-less Goad's pilotform housing. Griph smirked as he was rewarded with a large electrical arc slicing across the cockpit, accompanied by a small explosion which caused fire and smoke to pillow out from the center of the herc. He didn't know if he had instantly killed the glitch or if it was slowly burning, but he imagined he could hear its synthesized screams, and smiled.

The infantry were up now, over the top of their shallow makeshift position and bull-rushing the small convoy vehicles, their fire teams keeping them covered with small arms fire. Griph looked instinctively for the rest of his sword, and saw them fully engaged, facing a force of as many a dozen Cybrids. There'd been more than in the past, apparently an adjustment to the Blood Eagle scavenging tactics, and they'd guarded well. At least two Executioners and twice as many Adjudicators were visible. Quite a force to commit, thought Griph, they must really need these parts.

He ordered his squad to concentrate on an unlucky quad of blue-painted Cybrids, the lighter of the enemy group. His Knights made short work of them, wasting barely thirty seconds in turning the assorted enemy Shepherds and Bolos into smoking piles of scrap metal. Turning to orient himself he caught the dying screams of a Knight in the other squad. Equal in numbers, the Knights were separated and suppressed my missile and particle beam fire from the Executioners, who were keeping the Knights from being mobile in the cramped space while the Adjudicators moved in front. Two of the Adjudicators and an Executioner turned themselves to confront the threat of Griph's squad, and Griph saw the dangerous tactical position he was in. He had numbers, but the Cybrids could inflict serious casualties, possibly even escape unless he dispatched these heavies quickly.

"Freya, Odin, take a 'judge and stick with it." said Griph, delegating an Apocalypse to each attack an Adjudicator. "Beowulf, fire support to both of them." he finished, addressing the Myrmidon pilot last.

"What about you?" chimed Beowulf.

"Don't worry about me, help the others!" With that Griph throttled up and charged directly at the Executioner shielding the convoy. With a feral yell Griph blazed away with his weapons, aiming deliberately at his enemy's missile racks. He managed to knock one off, but not before the Executioner emptied two of his Shrikes and several plasma bolts into his forward shields, causing the computer to beep out a warning that its strength had been reduced to zero. Directing his fire again, he chipped off bits of armor and damaged the other missile rack, engaging his thermal diffuser and causing another shrike to fly harmlessly by only to detonate in a snowdrift as he did so.

The Executioner began to retreat now, and he pursued, battering it with EMPs and autocannons every step of the way, wading through the path of Cybrid convoy vehicles and overturning a few. After taking its last two weapons off, Griph blew off its left leg joint, savoring the clean kill as the huge monster of a herc did a face plant into the snow. A few more shots and a reactor leak went critical, causing a shockwave which was mild for Griph but probably quite scary to anyone on the ground. Just then he heard the voice he knew was Freya screaming in pain before her transmission cut out. "Damn!" he yelled. He'd been too absorbed in getting his kill, and now his squad was in trouble. Griph twisted the Basilisk around, raking certain convoy vehicles such as the Jammers and Protectors with crippling fire as he turned, then doubled back at maximum speed towards his own group.

One of the 'judges was down, along with Freya's mangled Apocalypse, and a damaged Odin was attempting to limp backwards to safety as the remaining Adjudicator advanced, training its radiation gun on the hapless pilot again and again. Griph winced, knowing full well the permanent damage that cruel weapon could cause to the human body. Meanwhile Beowulf's Myrmidon was laying down pulverizing railgun shots onto the glitch, but it was just taking it, focused on knocking out Odin.

"For Hunter's sake kill it already goddamn it!" Odin was yelling frantically. Griph sized the target up, decided instantly that the fastest way to kill it was to attack the damaged foot. Luckily for Odin, Griph was a very skilled marksman as well as a pilot; three linked volleys of fire tore the distracted Adjudicator's foot off at the heel. Unsupported, it teetered for a moment before landing on its side, into the original area the infantry had entrenched. Griph checked his sensors, saw that the two squads slightly to the west had dispatched their enemy without losses, and felt suddenly guilty. His squad wouldn't have lost Freya if he hadn't been so consumed with his own target.

"All clear, scavenger crews get movin' before 'brids call in the cavalry, that one took us way too long, I'm almost positive the convoy got off a signal beacon. Time's a factor here, people! Go, go!" The infantry and scavenging flatbeds were moving into position before he had finished giving the order. Griph saw a team of infantry with plasma torches begin cutting open the cockpit of Freya's downed Apoc, and felt sick, forced himself to look away, trying to convince himself that they wanted her remains for burial. His train of thought was interrupted by the voice of an infantry commander on the comm.

"Knight-Captain Weathers, we've got a situation down here."

"What? What's going on?" asked Griph, concerned. The infantry knew their jobs – they ordinarily didn't require special instruction.

"Well sir… there's… there's people down here sir."

"What?"

"People. Humans. They're saying they were captured by the Cybrids and were on their way to becoming Trojan Horses." Griph shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Uh, commander I believe you know our policy as regards refugees from glitch territory. We cannot accept these people into our camp."

"We'd considered it sir, and we have interrogated a few briefly. For the record sir I do believe they're telling the truth. But I do know the doctrine." Griph frowned, thought suddenly of the "Flesheater" virus that the Cybrids had unleashed on humans and animals, the biological warfare that had gutted the cities of Vancouver and Los Angeles. He could send this incident up the chain of command… but there was no time now, glitch reinforcements were probably already on their way.

"We can't take any risks. Follow the doctrine." said Griph grimly. From his cockpit he could see the individual figures moving in the darkness below him, silhouetted by the spotlights.

"Roj that sir." Griph watched with hard eyes as visions of the Trojan Horses which had killed his beloved Furious Stars, his brother, and quite nearly his father ran through his head. As he stared the hundred or so refugees were forced to stand in a straight line, then the order was given and dozens of bright green and red flashes of light from blasters and candleguns slashed into the prisoners, and the bodies lay where the fell. Griph knew that as the scavengers completed taking what they could from the convoy that they would roll over the bodies with the treads on the way back, to ensure that they remained unusable in any tangible form to the enemy.

Griph felt a dull nausea overcoming him, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Still, all he'd done was follow Imperial decree – this wasn't just any war, it was a war of survival and a war of annihilation. Despite the fact that he knew in his mind that this was a victory, that gnawing feeling in his gut would not let him forget the wrongness of what had just happened. As much as he tried to push it out of his mind, convince himself of its necessity, he felt as though he had sacrificed something vital to the realities of war. He couldn't quite place it… but amid victory there was a defeat of sorts. Some tiny, vital part of him had been surrendered to the Cybrids.


April 2845


Griph gritted his teeth as the dropship slammed into the atmosphere with a force equaling eight times Earth's gravity. The entire ship shook, and Griph wondered briefly, as he always did, if it was going to come apart around him. Helluva way to go, he thought, hands gripping the edge of his console tightly. The further along the ship got, the rougher the ride seemed to become. There was no feeling of downward progression, just a drop that hit him all the way in his feet and sent blood shooting to his head, and the oppressive feeling of weights being pressed against his chest.

Gasping, he knew that even though this was absolute misery every time, it was one of the most intense sensations one could ever experience. It was somehow more real than combat even, out here there was no hazy bloodlust or dull numbness that took hold to dampen the psychological effect of the incredible danger. It was more vivid and powerful than sex. It was like the worst kind of drug, like Wreck, a bad high with worse withdrawal affects, yet it was completely physical, mechanical, not lucid at all. It was like touching the face of God.

As this humbling affect took hold of Griphon Weathers, and his dropship plummeted at incredible speeds towards the landing zone, he knew that outside the craft the wings and the prominent portions of the boxy hull were being superheated and aglow with orange and red tones. In just a few moments the threshold would be crossed, and that to do so required another kind of surrender. A surrender of inhibitions, of sensitivities, of fears – the total commitment, focus, on the mission at hand. It was as the Furious Stars had always said, the point of life is to Flame or Fade – and they had. The dropship was past the point of no return now, slamming the atmosphere in formation with thirty-five of its brethren, at seven minutes ETA to target and that other old Furious Stars battle cry echoed in his brain.

"Kiss the Edge!"


March 2841

"Do you submit your innocence, before this court, of the charges laid against you?" The judge's booming voice seemed to fill the otherwise silent chamber.

"I do, Your Honor." Griph's reply was firm, steady. He knew Patience was among the gallery, watching him. He felt the judge's eyes burning into him like lasers, wondered now if God had forgiven him for the things that had happened around him, and because of him in the Rockies.

"Then do you also deny that the testimony of key witnesses, placing you at the scene of the Denver incidents, is true?"

"I do not Your Honor." Griph stared up at the man in black robes, thinking if it would be justice for him to suffer for the crimes of other Blood Eagles simply because he had not committed the crime in this particular instance. The night of slaughter in the mountains with the convoy had never left him, but it had gone unreported. Another guilty Blood Eagle overlooked by the system…

"If you were at Denver, as you have admitted yourself you were, would it not have been very nearly impossible to misunderstand the situation? Please Knight-Captain Weathers, we are discussing a matter in which thousands died due to the actions of your comrades – the entire Blood Eagle chain of command itself has been implicated. I do not need to remind you that you are under oath." The judge was losing patience, knew that Griph was hiding something from him, and wanted to know what. But Griph was unwilling to disgrace his family name by admitting the completely unrelated massacre of prisoners – much less to admit that he had done such a terrible thing in front of Patience, despite the fact that he had only obeyed official policy to the letter.

"Your Honor, I have already explained several times the combat situation that occurred at Denver." Replied Griph tiredly. "My pennant was operating east of the city, spearheading a push to cut the main highways into the heart of the metrozone and surround the Cybrid defenders. The alleged killings, rapes and other cited brutalities occurred in the southern and western sections of the city, far from my unit or myself."

"So you have said, Captain. However I feel it is my duty to inform you that I have served on this bench for nine years, and have a sixth sense when it comes to understanding the probable guilt or innocence of a party in question." He held up his hand, as if cautioning Griphon not to speak and let him finish, although in truth Griph was far more disciplined than to do something so stupid in an Imperial Court. "I understand you were not supposedly near the exact area where these instances occurred, however you were in the general region. And, I feel compelled to say this Captain, you have not entirely convinced me of your innocence with your words." Griph's eyed widened a bit but he kept control, searching back to that old concept of balance he'd learned so well on Io.

"Uh… well, Your Honor, if it pleases the court, I have offered previously to turn over the records of my tactical communication officer for the Denver North area of operations –"

"Please Captain, do you really think I am that stupid? I'm quite certain your records are clean, or you would not offer them. What I am concerned about in this case, as I have been throughout these proceedings, is that as the Blood Eagle are concerned, all that they need is an alibi and their mission statement to get away with gross injustices and abuse of their mandate as an Order of Imperial Knights. All TDF personnel are held to certain standards of conduct, and the Blood Eagle are no exception." The rising anger in the judge's voice was quite apparent, and Griph felt powerless. I feel guilty but I know I'm innocent in this case, thought Griph, frustrated. Admit the truth of the matter, or hide it? Disgrace and shame lay in either option.

"Your Honor, perhaps interviews with my subordinates or superiors could yield answers to the questions that you want so badly answered." The judge looked absolutely furious.

"Captain Weathers, I have consulted all the sources I need in your case, and you are by all accounts an exemplary soldier. The trouble is that I believe you are also an exemplary liar as well." Griph's cheeks burns but he held his tongue.

"Your Honor?" was all he said in reply.

"You heard me Captain. There is no evidence to disprove your testimony, and you must therefore be acquitted, but I am no fool. I do this only because due process demands it. I must remind you that an obstructionist mindset, even in the guise of servitude, is not smiled upon by this court or by the Emperor. The appropriate annotations have been made." The judge looked down at him with great scrutiny, and Griph had to make an effort not to wince. "Please try to make judicious use of your freedom Captain Weathers. The defendant is hereby deemed not guilty of complacency in violation of Imperial law or TDF military statute 571, and is acquitted of all secondary charges."


January 2844


Though his court-martial had not deemed Griph guilty of any crime, he knew in his heart that he had participated in the kinds of terrible things which the judge had spoken of, and knew the he had been right. Now the shame of lying could be added to his list of crimes, only made worse by Patience's loving eyes staring into his own as she pronounced her firm belief in him. "I believe you Griph, even if that judge didn't. It's been a terrible war, but I know you'd never do something like what the other Blood Eagles did. You're not Razorfire, Griph."

He was not, but the feelings of horror would not leave. Griph felt his only recourse was to transfer outsystem – he considered briefly leaving the Order entirely, but in the end decided that would be irresponsible and would change nothing in the future – despite a few convictions, the Blood Eagle would not change their ways, he knew. Instead he decided to continue serving under them, to rise through the ranks and hope to reform their dire attitudes as he advanced. Idealistic, perhaps, but Griph was used to success. Patience had supported this decision as well, although she didn't understand the motivation. "We both have a job to do." was what she had said to him before he left. Even his own father's frustration with the Order had led to a strained relationship, especially due to the fact that he did not quit after the court martial. Griph sensed that the Emperor knew the true depth of the Blood Eagle deviance, but was reluctant to act because of their dependable nature as fighters.

In mid-2843 Griph had transferred to Titan, as part of an inquisition team under the command of Knight-Captain Sunder Cain. Cain was a cold and distant man, although he was proving an incredibly competent leader. On his watch security had been tightened considerably, much to the chagrin of the local icegrubs. There'd been much whispering about the return of Teddy oppression, and Griph had decided that more cordial relations could be helpful – Cain had approved this fraternization, setting Weathers up with an NTDF liaison officer, convinced both of NTDF's loyalty as an old unit and the need to establish a familiar face in case a trusted insider was needed in the future detention and interrogation process of certain locals.

So it was that he found himself sitting across the table from his friend, the NTDF liaison, drinking coffee in the lounge of the Eskandani station mess area. She was reading some engineering magazine, adorned with pictures of the fleet's brand new ships and certain herc designs. Griph sipped at his coffee a bit, looking at the girl. She wasn't quite yet thirty, with short brown hair. She was wearing a typical grey jumpsuit with a blue field cloak draped over her shoulders, and seemed fairly absorbed in her reading material so Griph said nothing. They'd gotten to know each other fairly well over the past few months, and he was quite fond of her.

"These Ryu Pinch drives are somethin' else." she murmered in her vaguely southern NorthAm drawl, taking a sip of her own beverage. Griph looked back up at her, waited for her to elaborate. She didn't, so he shrugged and stifled a yawn.

"You should really date me." she said randomly. Griph's eyes flitted back to her. They'd been over this before a few times, and she wasn't serious anymore, but just liked teasing. Although Griph got the feeling that the offer was only partially a joke.

"You know I'm married Genie." he replied, taking another sip of coffee.

"So what?"

"You know perfectly well. I'm married! Maybe if I were an icegrub I'd say yes, but I'm a Knight for Hunter's sake – we can't just abandon our families. It'd be dishonorable." He was smiling as he spoke, in truth he found Genie's teasing as amusing as she did.

"Well isn't that cute. Look, Mrs. Weathers is far away, that's all I'm sayin'. All you nice handsome Knights would be better off with a real woman like me than some dainty Imp aristocrat." Genie put down her magazine, and drained her cup of coffee.

"Uh huh." Griph's personal communicator beeped; it was Cain, requesting he report back to base immediately. He didn't answer, just switched it back to standby, and stood up. "Sorry Genie but I'm gonna have to cut this one short. I'm wanted back at HQ." Genie stayed in her seat watching him, still with a smirk on her face.

"You Knight pretty-boys are so easily whipped. Hee hee." She chuckled to herself as Griph walked out of the mess hall, muttering curses

* * *


"Are you kidding me? I've hardly been here six months!" Griph was taken aback at what he was being told.

"It's no joke Weathers, believe that. And you better watch that tone with me because I'm in command, don't care if your daddy's the Emperor or not." Sunder Cain was a man who always looked like he was fully prepared to reach out and hit someone, so Griph crossed his arms across his chest and tried to rationalize the situation before doing anything reckless.

The third man in the small interrogation room was a fellow of average Terran height and weight, well-muscled and wearing an informal brown jacket. His dark eyes seemed to assess Griph cautiously. Cain pointed to him with his thumb. "This, is Predator. He's a merc. You're going to be attached to him soon. He runs with a mercenary group known as the Assassin's Organization. Into some pretty clandestine stuff, but I'm sure he'll fill you in." The Knight-Captain glanced at Predator, who shrugged, before continuing. "Point is, they're under Imperial contract now. Secret contract, mind you, but that's just it. It's a shadowy group. So keep a low profile."

"I know these people." protested Griph. "I've fought on Titan, I know the icegrubs, I can probably be of more use here with the Knights –" he was cut off by an impatient wave of Cain's hand.

"Spare me Weathers. I know your great little history, that's part of the reason you were selected for this mission. TAO's real good at scouting, feeling stuff out, and when it comes right down to it, drawing first blood when they come into contact with the enemy. Now, mercenaries or not they're pretty skilled and you're going with them. You've got… two weeks. Then I'd better not see you around." Griph clenched his fists; unhappy at being suddenly transferred without warning from a crack Knight unit to a mercenary rabble, but there was nothing he could do. On his way out Cain looked back over his shoulder to toss back the comment, "Hey you should be grateful, you're getting the hell out of my command." Then he left.

Predator extended his hand, and reluctantly Griph took it. "A pleasure." The man said, and Griph gave a curt nod. "What Cain told you was the gist of it – the Assassin's Organization is more or less a guild with a license to kill on behalf of its employer. That employer for the next thirty months is going to be the Empire. And in all honesty we are pretty good at what we do." He gave a small smile, and Griph nodded again, more slowly this time.

"Why is the contract secret?" asked Griph, somewhat puzzled.

"Fair question. The Empire requested that, not us – we like transparency in our dealings, and we have a very strong sense of honor guiding us, not unlike the Knights. We'd much rather chase toasters out into the great frontier than sit guarding some corporate shining tower somewhere. Thing is, the Empire needs every ounce of manpower it can muster. Skilled fighters are in even greater demand. For every elite soldier Earth and the Colonies send off with the Pursuit Armada, they're going to need suppliers, corporate or mercenaries to help them out. Grey interests, if you will." The man stopped for a moment, looked Griph in the eye. "There's another reason we want your help, in particular. It's not just your scouting or command ability boy – it's your heritage."

Griph was somewhat surprised now, and intrigued. "My heritage?"

"Naturally. You're Caanon's son, but more than that, you're Bek's nephew." Griph was cautious now, and narrowed his eyes. His uncle had been involved with many people, not all of them good.

"I'm not sure how that's important here." He said.

"It's damned important." said Predator forcefully. "Your uncle and I… we made a blood pack, on Titan. We swore we would help defend humanity to try and correct the mistake we made in making the Rebellion such a success. You see I used to run guns for him, and we offered our services at a discount to the Martian and Earth-based rebellions." Griph began to realize Predator had to be much older than he looked. He paid the man his full attention, anxious to learn about the untold chapters of his uncle's life. "We also swore that we'd always be with each other, in one form or another." He paused for a moment, looking somewhat regretful. "We must have been a little drunk too. We swore that we'd take care of one another's family in case one didn't make it through it all alive – although, back then we thought we were all going to die. Swore a lot of other things too, not so nice, about killing 'brids and bustin' skulls." Predator looked reflective, and he sighed wistfully. "It's almost like that last line in that Venusian poem: 'Make acid oaths and never sleep.' A lot of that oath's been haunting me ever since. When I heard you were out here I realized I needed to recruit you; you were Bek's favorite nephew. He said quite a lot about you."

"You still haven't even told me your real name." said Griph suddenly. "How about you start with that?" Predator looked at Griph, looked at the room around them, and then winked.

"Sure thing. But not here kiddo."


April 2845


Griph's dropship was in unrestrained freefall towards the planet's surface – and he was waiting for that noticeable secondary shudder which was the signal that the powerful thrusters on the wings of the craft had kicked in and slowed the mad plunge to a significantly more reasonable speed. He'd only done a limited number of hot insertions before, was nervous when thirty seconds had elapsed without that comforting feeling of losing momentum.

"TAO 1-1, Griph here." He spoke into the local system, to the pilot and co-pilot of the dropship. "Something wrong?"

"That's a negative. Gravity here's significantly lighter than some other places you might have been, so we've still got twelve more seconds… eleven… ten… before those thrusters kick in. Just relax and enjoy the ride okay?"

The reply made Griph feel sheepish. Some combat leader I am, he thought. Still afraid of these goddamn drops. As the pilot had suggested, the thrusters did kick in on time and the descent grew more comfortable.

Comm chatter was beginning to pick up now, the various dropships and pilots talking to one another. Predator's voice could be heard over the open frequency. "This is going to be a very hot zone folks, so hit the ground firing, stay sharp, and keep your weapons hot. Got that? Focus on the task at hand."

The task at hand. The last several thousand feet was another bumpy ride, but Griph hardly noticed. His eyes were closed, in silent meditation, another gift of the Tarazedi from what seemed like a different era. The steady hum of the dropship engines became louder now, and Griph felt the ever slight pitch of the cargo bay and the hard impact of the touchdown. Eyes snapped open, revealing the cargo bay ramp opening up onto soil untouched by human presence, beneath alien sun.

Well, maybe not such a different era. The blood red herc pitched forward, down and out of the dropship's bay one foot ahead of the other, the first to touch the surface of that mysterious world, weapons firing before its pilot even consciously knew it…

---