Atrum's Scribblings [Various stories and such]

[Atrum Daemon]

SEWER AMBUSH

Voltaire stopped mid-stride, letting his foot fall back into the water. For a moment, the only sound in the sewer tunnel was the steady dripping of water from various small pipe leaks near the ceiling. In the next instant, Voltaire ducked out of the way of the bolt of electrical energy that sailed over his head. The Magos spun quickly, drawing a compact shotgun from the folds of his rust-red robes and firing. The slug round caught the renegade elect-priest in the ribs, causing the young woman to topple into the water.

Voltaire’s shotgun was knocked from his hand by the mechadendrite of his next opponent. Voltaire’s head snapped around as he evaded a second dendrite, sending his own to deal with the first as the rogue tech-priest came into view and attempted to impale Voltaire using his breacher arm. Voltaire easily moved to the side after calculating the velocity and trajectory of the attack. In the same motion, he grabbed the tech-priest on the arm above the drill, plant his free hand on the back of his head, spin him once, and toss him into a wall. As the rogue hit the tunnel wall, the grip of Voltaire’s mechadendrite ripped one of the rogue priest’s in half.

As the rogue priest turned, Voltaire’s second dendrite flew forward and part of the mechanized claw slammed through the priest’s shoulder, sending him over onto his back. As Voltaire took a step forward, he became aware of his first opponent recovering and leaping at him. Voltaire spun and grabbed the girl by the head and slammed her to the ground under the water. Voltaire planted his metal foot on the girl’s chest to keep her under the water as he retrieved his shotgun from it’s place on the small walkway behind him. He was barely aware of the girl’s hands clawing at his steel foot, trying desperately to push his weight off of her.

The girl’s thrashing stopped as Voltaire leveled the shotgun and fired a slug round at the recovering tech-priest. The top part of the priest’s head was blasted to pieces, his intelligence core shattering in the process. Voltaire removed his foot from the drowned girl and returned the shotgun to it’s hidden place under his robes. Satisfied that his attackers would not be getting up again, the Magos continued his trudge through the sewers. He had wasted far too much time with the fight.

[Atrum Daemon]

The Price of a Mile

Characters:
Commissar Keld
Major Stahl

(The scene opens at the top of a hill recently taken in battle. Blood has soaked into the ground and the dead and wounded are being carted away. Commissar Keld stands at the top of the hill surveying the scenes below while Major Stahl approaches from behind)

Commissar Keld: Quite the sight, isn’t it, Major?
Major Stahl (steps up next to him): It is, Commissar. And what a sight. How many did we loose taking this forsaken hill?
Commissar Keld: Full body count hasn’t come in yet. But, I think I can take a guess…
Major Stahl (sighs): Too many. Far too many.

(They turn from the edge of the hill and walk toward the center where a small outpost was erected by the opposing force)

Major Stahl: How many more, Commissar? How many more?
Commissar Keld: How many more what, Major?
Major Stahl (angrily): How many more of these fucking hills? How many more men will I have to loose to these pointless meat-grinders? Not to mention the men you execute.
Commissar Keld (eyes narrowing): Major, I do what my duty demands of me. If I have to execute the bad seeds to ensure the morale and efficiency of these men, then so be it!
Major Stahl (calming): I know, I know. This all just seems pointless. And that makes it frustrating. Are these hills really worth the loss of life? What about the miles trekked to get here? We spent days taking this hill and lost who knows how many men and command won’t even have the decency to give us a break.
Commissar Keld: We are moving on to the next hill, then?
Major Stahl: Yes, Commissar. We are. I haven’t told any of the men yet.
Commissar Keld: Letting them have a small reprieve, I take it?
Major Stahl: These men have more than fucking earned it.
Commissar Keld (removing his hat and nodding): I agree, Major. They’re good men.

(They turn from the outpost and begin walking about the summit of the hill)

Commissar Keld (muttering): How do you measure the price…?
Major Stahl: What was that, Commissar?
Commissar Keld: What? Oh, nothing important. I was just thinking of a question my mentor once asked me.
Major Stahl: What was the question?
Commissar Keld: “How do you measure the price of a mile in our work?” I finally get what the answer is. The answer is lives, Major. The lives and the blood of the men and women under our command is the price of each mile walked and each objective taken.
Major Stahl: But is it a price worth paying, Commissar?
Commissar Keld: Think about what we’re fighting for. Liberation of this world. I would say the price is certainly worth paying. And these men and women are eager to pay it.
Major Stahl (sighing): You do have a point. Before I became an officer, I was more than willing to lay my life down. But, now that I have a command of my own, it’s different. There is one thing I’ve always wondered, though.
Commissar Keld: Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Major.
Major Stahl: How exactly do you manage to keep the men in line with so few executions?
Commissar Keld (nodding with a smirk): That goes back to something my mentor said, as well. “Throw your men into positions once there is no escape and they WILL prefer death to flight.” If presented with a completely hopeless position with no real way to run, they will gladly die.
Major Stahl: Potential death becomes their escape… You Commissars never cease to amaze.
Commissar Keld: Well, Major, I think you’ve put off telling your men the news long enough.
Major Stahl (grimly): You’re right, Commissar. We’ll loose hundreds, possibly thousands, but damn it we WILL take that next hill.
Commissar Keld (laughing lightly and clapping him on the back): That’s the spirit, Major! These rebels will fear the sound of thousands of feet marching toward them.
Major Stahl (nodding): I may need your help to keep their spirits up, Commissar. I never was brilliant with speeches.
Commissar Keld: Part of my position demands me to be able to orate with some skill. I am here to assist, after all.

(The two men walk toward the path winding down the hill. In the distance, the sound of heavy guns are heard as the scene fades to black)

[Atrum Daemon]

Forgettable Events

They were all situated around a wood table in the tavern, letting the acrid smells of stale beer and tobacco along with the stench of self-loathing and failure wash over and around them. The men all belonged to the same military company that had been loaned to the local Count after months of marching through marshland, chasing a sorcerer-general of the enemy. For the men, it was nice to have simple work for a change.

The four men who sat around the wooden table, completely were engaged in a card game. “Not very often we split into teams like this,” Chainer, a muscled young man with almost aquiline features, said.

“Find it refreshing myself,” said Tracker, a lithe and wiry man with a collection of claw scars on his thin face and neck.

“Lotta work in this area,” Fang said, drawing a card from the deck. He was a slender bodied, almost gaunt man with sharpened teeth that gave him his name. “Probably why the Captain split us like this.”

Deadeye, a hard-bodied and lanky man of few words, nodded in agreement, laying out a winning hand on the table. The other three groaned and cursed at the archer, who scooped his winnings to his side of the table with a satisfied smirk on his face. The men had little to bet with, most of it being tobacco with a few spare coins tossed in. As a kind of unspoken tradition, they also bet their most valued possessions: the skull-faced badges of their company. Out of all the things put into the pot, the badges would be the only things returned by the winner at the end of the night.

While the cards were shuffled and dealt, Deadeye snuck a glance at a pair of men at the opposite end of the tavern room who were talking in low, hushed voices. After a few minutes, the two men got up and hastily left, unnoticed by everyone but the terse archer. “Time to work,” he murmured to the others, who just nodded as though barely listening.

The lanky archer was the only one to stand, leaving his badge on the table, and leave the tavern. His sharp eyes quickly locked onto the backs of the two men he was set to follow as he stepped out into the muggy night. The wooden walkway creaked as Deadeye stepped onto it and caught the two men with his sharp eyes. He stepped off the low platform onto the muddy ground and followed them. One of the men took a cautionary look over his shoulder and only saw the outline of Deadeye in the torch and lamp lit dark, shaking his head as he saw the man nearly slip and fall in he mud.

Deadeye’s gaze flitted to the shadowed platforms in front of the various shops and houses, all of which had been closed and locked since nightfall. He couldn’t see into the darkness, but he knew Tracker was there, following the two men just as he was. Tracker stole from the shadows as the two men got farther away, intent on not losing them. As Tracker carefully closed the distance, one of the men turned to check behind them again. He would have passed Tracker over completely had he not noticed the skull badge on the man’s chest. Cursing, he shoved his companion toward a nearby alley and drew a long knife from his belt as the second dashed away.

Tracker tutted in irritation as his own knife flashed into his hand. Deadeye snuck around behind the two, making it look like he slinking away from the fight in fright. The unnamed man came at Tracker, who twisted out of the way of his knife and struck three times with his own. The first caught the man in his gut, the second in his chest, and the last in his head, each spilling blood as the man fell onto his face. As blood mixed in with the muddy street, Tracker stepped over the man and grabbed his ankles, dragging him into the alley as thunder clapped distantly. By morning, the blood in the street would be washed away.

“Where’d he go?” Tracker asked Deadeye, dumping the corpse unceremoniously on the ground.

“Last door on the left side,” Deadeye replied. “Locked it behind him. How‘d he spot you?”

“Put my badge on when I left,” Tracker said.

The archer rolled his eyes, earning a dirty look from Tracker as Fang and Chainer appeared at the mouth of the alley. Chainer handed Tracker his sword and tossed Deadeye a short bow and quiver, his own sword already belted to his side. Wordlessly, Tracker found the last door on the left and crouched down to the keyhole, taking a lock pick from his belt and set to work. The door unlocked after a few seconds with a satisfied chuckle from Tracker, who pushed the door open slowly.

The door opened to reveal the interior of a small house lit by several lamps. As the four men entered, Chainer whistled lowly and pointed toward the back corner of the room where a trap door was situated. “This just keeps getting better and better,” Fang said as Chainer pulled the heavy wooden door open.

The soldiers descended a set of stone stairs into the belly of the old catacombs beneath the town. “I’d say we can assume people have been here,” Tracker said once they reached the tunnels, which had been lit with torches and braziers.

“Maybe they still bury people down here?” Chainer offered hopefully.

“No, no,” Fang shook his head, “there’s a cemetery at the edge of the town for that.”

“Just fills you wit confidence, don’t it?” Tracker asked with a mock grin.

Deadeye, being the man of few words, just sighed and shook his head as they started down the tunnel, weapons at the ready. Fang, who didn’t have a sword or bow, held out his hand palm down and a staff tipped with a pearl skull rose from the ground at his wordless command. Gripping the bone shaft of the staff, the wizard fell into step at the back of the group.

“This kinda thing common work?” Chainer asked after a few moments of silence. He was a newly acquired member of the company, having only been with them for a few months.

“Chasin shady tugs in te underground?” Tracker asked. “Not as often as you would tink.”

“What we do is good, though, right?” the younger man asked. “Helping people like this?”

“Maybe,” Tracker shrugged, “I don’t really tink about too much. After slogging around for over ten years with this, I’ve stopped wonderin tings like tat.”

“Really?” Deadeye asked. “Last I checked, this work was more about steady income for you.”

“Well, when you put it like tat it sets me in a bad light.”

“You ever been in a good light?”

“What about you, Fang?” Chainer asked, turning his head to the wizard.

Fang did not seem to be paying attention, but rather lost in his own thoughts with a pensive look on his gaunt face. Chainer tried to get the man’s attention, but quickly gave up and left Fang his own mind.

***

“I agree with what you said earlier,” Chainer said to Tracker a few minutes later. “I am filled with confidence.”

They had followed the lit tunnel diligently for some distance before Tracker stopped them. He had found a particularly large blood smear on the wall that was still wet to the touch. “Think our shady friend had something to do with it?” Fang asked.

“No way to know that until we find the shifty bastard,” Tracker said, straightening and wiping the blood off his fingers.

“We’re probably getting close,” Deadeye said.

The others nodded and readied themselves as they walked farther down the tunnel. The tunnel eventually branched into three, two paths leading into impenetrable darkness while the third stopped short at a wooden door with metal studs. Deadeye dropped to one knee, bracing himself against the wall as he readied an arrow and drew the string back. Fang stayed back with the archer, placing a hand on top of the pearl skull, his second and third fingers poking into the eye sockets. Chainer and Tracker approached the door, Tracker reaching for the knob with a reassuring nod from Chainer.

Tracker cracked the door, letting out a sliver of bright light. With an eyebrow cracked, Tracker pushed the door the rest of the way open, letting out not only bright light, but the sound of a commanding voice speaking. Tracker and Chainer stepped onto a raised area looking down into some kind of pit that had probably been a crypt when the catacombs were regularly used. There was a crowd of people situated in front of an impromptu stage where a male figure in gaudy robes of royal purple with bands and rectangles of gold decorating them paced back and forth. His voice came from beneath a crested helm with a mask forged from brass covering his face.

“…That’s what I mean, friends. Morality. Law and order. These are things that mankind has devised in order to ‘correct’ our flaws. However! I say that these things are limits on our potential! Not only that, but they are unnatural, as well. If you kill a man simply for his presence offending you, is that not how it was intended? If someone dies because they were too weak to survive or defend themselves, was that not how nature meant it to be? If you trust in me, friends, then I can remove these limits and show you true mental and spiritual freedom. Look above! Here come two proponents of law and order!”

As one, the crowd turned to look up at the two soldiers above them. “Okay, tat was just creepy,” Tracker said lowly.

Deadeye and Fang entered a moment later, the archer firing his readied arrow at the helmed man. The robed figure snatched up a teenage boy and used his body as a shield, the arrow piercing his forehead, earning a low curse from Deadeye.

“As much as I’d love to stay and continue our conversing of last time, Fang, I must be off. Kill them, friends,” said the robed man, a smile in his voice as he vanished behind a door which slammed behind him.

The crowd, all glassy eyed, produced weapons which had been laying on the ground at their feet. Tracker and Chainer vaulted over the stone railing into the thick of the crowd, leaving Deadeye and Fang to do their work. Fang’s eyes were caught by a staff-wielding figure on the stage and appeared next to his chosen opponent on stage in a flurry of smoke. After a moment, Fang spoke: “I’m assuming you’re keeping them all under control?”

“The one’s that aren’t zombies, yes.”

“Perfect.”

The sorcerer tapped his staff on the stage, causing a column of fire to engulf Fang. He watched Fang’s silhouette vanish within the flames with a satisfied smirk on his face. The smirk quickly faded as the flames dispersed under the waving of Fang’s skull-topped staff.

“How did that not kill you?!”

Fang just shook his head with a smirk and placed his hand atop his staff, two fingers in the skull’s eyes as the sorcerer quickly tried bargaining for his life. “If you kill me, most of those people will die!”

“And you assume I care?”

Fang flicked out his fingers, causing a wave of winter wind to consume the sorcerer and freeze him solid. Fang then strolled across the stage and struck the man’s head with his staff, causing it to snap off his shoulders and shatter into hundreds of pieces on the floor. Fang glanced to his left, noting that around half of the crowd had suddenly stiffened and dropped to the floor, causing the wizard to make an irritated noise at the fact that his dead opponent had tried lying to him.

The glassy-eyed crowd, mind-slaves of the masked man, relentlessly attacked Tracker and Chainer, seeming to be ignorant of any wound dealt to them by either of the soldiers. Chainer, his namesake revealed by the bladed chain he wielded alongside his curved sword, cut down three men in a single arc of his chain, the blade slicing deep into each neck, sending them to the floor in gurgling heaps. Tracker, not having a flexible ranged tool, was finding a more difficult time as non-fatal strikes did not even slow the mind-slaved people despite the amount of blood on the stone floor. Both Tracker and Chainer were bleeding from various cuts on their arms and upper bodies, finding relief from the near constant attacks only when Deadeye and Fang finally decided to join in.

With the help of the wizard and the archer, the four soldiers struck down the last of the crowd. Tracker and Chainer nearly fell to the floor slipping on the blood as they made their way to the stage. “Tat’s more in line with our daily dose of weird shit,” Tracker said.

“Is there any point in trying to follow that masked bastard?” Chainer asked after nodding at Tracker’s comment.

“We’d only get lost,” Fang sighed.

“How’d he know your name, Fang?”

“Neither the time or place for that story, kid.”

“Back to te tavern?” Tracker asked

“Back to the tavern.” Deadeye nodded.

***

Once more, the acrid smells of tobacco and alcohol washed over the four men. They had returned to their table without incident, Tracker and Chainer having cleaned up on the way out of the catacombs. “Do you think he had any point?” Chainer asked as he dealt the cards, deciding not to press the issue of Fang’s relationship to the masked man.

“Who?” Tracker asked

“The guy in the catacombs. The masked guy.”

“Maybe,” Fang said with a shrug, “maybe not.”

“He didn’t really need a point,” Deadeye said, exchanging two cards

“He’s got a point,” the wizard said. “Crowds of people are easily swayed by fancy words. Especially crowds of peasants.”

“Well, te problem’s dealt with, Tracker said. “I, for one, would like to forget about it.”

“At least until that robed freak shows up again, right?”

“Yes, Chainer, tat’s right.”

[Atrum Daemon]

The Orrery

“For uncounted centuries we have guarded this sacred ground. Since the Great Transcendence, when we, the Vaanshii, shed our shells of flesh and bone for bodies of cold steel and circuits, we priests have kept safe the entrance to one of the most sacred and deadly grounds our people ever built.”

The voice of High Priest Ra echoed through the chamber as he addressed the assembled initiates of the Celestial Priesthood. At the far end of high-ceilinged church, behind the ranks of the skeleton-like metal bodies of the initiates, stood a massive archway with two shadowed figures standing in it. One leaned against the doorway’s massive frame with arms crossed over his chest while the other stood with hands clasped behind his back. “His speech hasn’t changed in three centuries,” spoke the priest leaning against the doorframe, a smirk in his voice that did not show on his cyclopean face.

“It does not need to, Geb,” the other priest said, his voice carrying a more respectful tone. “The primary mission of we stationed here has not changed.”

“I suppose the years are starting to bore me, Osiris,” Geb said with a mechanical sigh, interlacing his fingers behind his metal skull.

Geb and Osiris were nearly identical in design. The were both bipedal and humanoid, skeletal parodies of living beings. Geb had a single glowing green eye set in the middle of his head and his cloak was composed of earth-colored scales of glittering metal. His garb was a contrast to Osiris’ robe of gleaming white and his twin gleaming eyes spoke of volumes of knowledge.

They watched as High Priest Ra, dressed in bright and extravagant metallic robes, finished his speech with arms raised to the heavens. Osiris thought for a moment of the sacred orrery at the heart of the cathedral he stood in. Of the destructive potential should it fall into the hands of the ignorant.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of metal points tapping across the floor. “Did I miss it?” the spider-legged Ptah asked, his staff of office tapping the reflective floor along with his legs.

“He just finished,” Geb said, pushing off the doorframe as the initiates filed out. Those on the outer ranks bowed their heads reverently at the three high ranking priests.

“I’ve just come from Thoth’s chamber,” Ptah said.

“And?” Geb asked, skepticism entering his vocal tone, “what has he ‘seen’ now?”

“I should wait to tell Ra first.”

“Tell me what, Ptah?” Rah asked, seemingly having appeared behind the trio, his powerful voice carrying authority.

“Thoth has had a powerful divining. He says the traveler comes.”

The three other high priests immediately darkened at Ptah’s announcement. They all knew of Sekhmet the Traveler and her quest to rid the galaxy of alien threats to the Vaanshii and their holdings. They all knew what she would demand and what they must deny him.

***

Sekhmet stood tall atop the main tower of her mobile battle fortress. Her golden headdress gleamed in the bright light of the planet’s twin suns while her cold blue eyes surveyed the battlefield. Her legions marched implacably on the final enemy stronghold, pushing to remove the foreigners from the land of their people. Her gaze was drawn to the left flank, where her warriors had come under fire from enemy tanks armed with plasma cannons. The white hot blasts rendered his soldiers to little more than puddles of twisted metal, making recovery and repair protocols impossible.

Her eyes brightening with anger, Sekhmet extended an arm toward the lead tank, a small indention in her palm glowing with a sickly green light. She exerted her will and took control of the vehicle’s weapon systems, forcing the turret to spin and fire upon the tank’s allies. The plasma bolts exploded the other tanks in the squadron before Sekhmet clenched her fist and caused the controlled tank’s weapon to overload and violently explode in a flash of white light.

“Always an admiral display,” spoke the smooth voice of Set from behind Sekhmet. “Will you be joining the battle proper this time?”

“I will not,” she replied simply. “Unless the enemy commander proves worth my energy.”

“Why expend the resources in the first place?” Set asked, tilting his head. “I’ve never understood your drive behind all this.”

“Because,” she said sharply, rounding on Set, “these primatives need to remember their place. There was a time when our names were likened to gods to them. Now they expand into our borders and take what has been ours for generations. They need to be taught that the galaxy is ours for a reason! I do this so future generations still have a home among the stars.”

Set nodded in understanding, seeing his old friend in a new light. He had never asked why Sekhmet felt the need to wage a crusade against the likes of the human race for fear she would get violent. He started to see her as many other nobles saw her: a noble crusader protecting the holdings of the whole empire. He watched her turn her attention back to the battlefield, the tassels of scaled metal extending down from her shoulders all around her body shifting very slightly. He had never noticed that even though the Vaanshii’s cybernetic bodies did not distinguish gender, she still managed to carry herself with subtle femininity.

“Will you stop staring?” she asked him, her gaze not leaving the battlefield, though her grip on her war staff did tighten.

“Apologies,” Set said quickly.

“We’re going to the Celestial Cathedral after this is done,” she told him, watching her warriors breach the gates of the stronghold.

“Why would we go there? They aren’t in danger.” Set’s mind reeled as the meaning of her words finally clicked into place. “You can’t mean to use the orrery!”

Set grabbed Sekhmet by her shoulders and spun her around, staring into her cold eyes with his snake-like ones. “That is too far. Besides, the priests will never let you.”

“You said it yourself. This undertaking is a massive tax on resources.” Sekhmet spoke coldly and she placed a hand on Set’s bared metal chest to push him away. “Using the orrery would send a mass message to the lesser races of the galaxy that we are not to be opposed.”

“That is exactly why the priests will not let you use it,” Set said.

“I still have to try. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t try all possible solutions.”

They stared at one another in silence for several minutes. The explosions of the battle seemed miles away as red snake eyes stared into cold blue. Sekhmet seemed to blink when she realized her hand was still on his chest and removed it slowly. Set was her master of assassins and, like her, a former noble who had discarded all titles to join her crusade. He stood before her with only a skirt of gilded metal covering his body from the waist down and an attachment on each of his forearms that she knew each held a potent energy blade. She knew that at a moment’s notice, Set could spring into action and decimate anyone unlucky enough to be within arms length of him.

Set’s eyes momentarily lingered on her war staff, a weapon he had seen shear through tank hulls like paper. From experience, he knew that under the tassels hid a warrior’s body. He understood her capabilities and was frightened by them. But there was something about her that drew him to her side. It had worked when he had first seen Sekhmet with her legions two decades ago and had kept him there. He tentatively placed a hand on her shoulder after she turned around to watch the battle and sensed the servos in her arm tense. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said. “And I’ll be with you the whole way.”

His hand lingered for a moment before Set moved toward the lift back into the bowls of the mobile fortress.

***

Four months after her victory, Sekhmet’s fleet hung in orbit above Tartarus, the world the Celestial Priesthood called home. A sleek landing craft emerged from the belly of the largest cruiser and sped down toward the planet’s surface. Geb, High Priest of Transmogrification, stood at the entrance to the grand cathedral and watched the lander touch down. The cathedral behind Ged was a massive piece of architecture, glowing with techno-runes and stretching for miles across the landscape. From the high towers, other priests and initiates watched the landing pad, many curious to see Sekhmet the Traveler for the first time.

The Traveler emerged from the lander accompanied by Set and her honor guard. Sekhmet stopped before Geb and inclined her head as a sign of respect. “I wish to enter the Celestial Cathedral, honored priest.”

“I am Geb of the Celestial Priesthood. You and he may enter,” Geb said, nodding at Set, “but your killers stay outside.”

Sekhmet’s eyes flashed for a moment and two of the honor guard moved to approach Geb. The priest snapped his fingers and the metal of the landing pad warped to trap the legs of the entire honor guard, preventing them from moving. “I must insist on this,” Geb said. “High Priest Ra will only allow the two of you inside.”

“Very well,” Sekhmet said, understanding the position she was in. She waved the honor guard back to the ship after Geb released the warriors from their bonds.

Sekhmet and Set followed Geb into the grand cathedral. The vaulted ceiling made the pair feel rather small while they looked around, observing the building’s interior for the first time. Multiple holographic tapestries depicted various events in Vaanshii history, such as the founding of the Celestial Priesthood and the Great Conversion in which the Vaanshii as a whole exchanged their natural bodies for cybernetic bodies. The pair observed other priests going about their duties and noted how several wielded technological devices in a way that primitive races would view as magic, much like the way Geb had manipulated the metal of the landing pad to bind Sekhment’s honor guard. What was, at the most basic level, manipulation of the metal’s base molecules would seem like some kind of sorcery to the less developed races of the galaxy.

“Where are we going?” Set asked as the trio passed into a corridor.

“High Priest Ra wishes to speak to you himself,” Geb answered, “so that’s where we’re going.”

Geb led the pair through various parts of the cathedral. They passed testing facilities for weapon technology and rooms filled to the ceiling with powerful telescopes and computer banks to observe the stars beyond Tartarus. From the branches in the metal corridors, they could hear the sounds of teachers instructing initiates and quiet clanking and grinding of machinery. After passing through many grand chambers and decorated corridors, they passed into the central chamber.

Sekhmet and Set found themselves stunned at the magnificent sight. High above them, near the ceiling, sat a small star suspended in a powerful containment field that gave light to the room. Holographic images decorated the walls depicting renditions of great figures in Vaanshii history. Famous inventors, politicians, and military figures were immortalized in shimmering holographic images that seemed alive in their own way. The floor was inlaid with lines and sharp curves of green light that formed intricate runic designs that only the priests would be able to comprehend. A raised platform stood at the far end with several figures standing on it. They watched as Geb grossed the floor and took his place on the platform at the far end. Sekhmet and Set looked around as they carefully approached the platform and saw that the chamber was as much a museum of scientific advancement as it was a gathering place for the priests. Pontiffs and alters dotted the floor, each displaying a different device or artifact of ages gone by. Set understood that he and Sekhmet were more than likely being given a rare privilege, as the chamber did not strike him as one to shown to just any outsider.

“Your coming has been known to us, Traveler,” spoke Ra’s powerful voice when Sekhmet and Set stopped before the platform, which lowered at a small gesture from the priest. “And we thought it only fitting that one of your reputation be given a chance to see one of the greatest repositories of knowledge and history we have.”

“I admit…I am a bit overwhelmed,” Sekhmet said, a feeling of unease washing over her for a brief moment before her resolve took hold. “But, I assume you also know what I am here for.”

“We do,” Ra answered with a nod.

“And you know what I am willing do to get to the Celestial Orrery.”

“That will not be necessary,” Ra said smoothly. “I will give you the access you seek.”

Silence spread across the room like a powerful miasma. No one assembled had expected such a response. As quickly as the silence came, it was almost immediately broken by the voices of the assembled High Priests.

“You can not be serious!” Osiris shouted. “You know what she means to do!”

“That power was never meant for outsiders!” Ptah’s voice joined Osiris

Geb, Isis, and the other leaders of the Celestial Priesthood made their objections until Ra silenced them. “That is quite enough,” his voice sounded from the entire room, nearly deafening all who heard it. “I have made my decision and it is within my power to do this. Lord Set, I ask that you wait here. This is something only she is meant to see.”

“I understand,” Set said after a moment of tense self-argument.

“Come with me, Traveler,” Ra said, leading Sekhmet back to the center of the room.

Sekhmet watched as Ra knelt and manipulated several of the runes on the floor. A pattern flashed and the floor opened, allowing a lift to surface. Ra and Sekhmet stepped into the lift, her eyes locking with Set’s for a moment before the doors closed and the lift descended. The lift came to a smooth halt a few moments later and the doors slid open.

The room beyond was not as brightly lit as the chamber above and was dominated by a raised platform above which multiple metal arms extended from the ceiling. Ra motioned for Sekhmet to follow him around the base of the machine’s tall platform and up a set of stairs to the controls. Ra pressed a sequence of buttons and the orrery came to life. The arms began to manipulate as though they were part of a living creature, branching to form a complex web that projected an intricate hologram. The hologram was a web of individual holograms with various floating lights representing stars in the galaxy. “This is the Celestial Orrery,” Ra said. “This powerful treasure records the position of every star in the cosmos.”

“Every star?” Sekhmet asked. “This is an enormous map, how is it a weapon?”

“Watch.”

Ra pressed a few more runes and the hologram shifted a more localized focus. The Orrery changed to show the exact location of every star in the Vaanshii holdings. “Any act that snuffs out one of those lights will cause the corresponding star to go supernova millennia before it is meant to. As you know, this act will destroy all the planets around it. This is the power you seek, yes? The power to destroy all threats to our empire with one act? You can. All you have to do is reach out and close your fist upon a star surrounded by worlds inhabited by foreigners and your message will be sent. But, are you truly ready to condemn just as many of our people to die with them?”

Sekhmet was silent in her response and simply starred at the Orrery. She had never imagined the Orrery to be such a terrifying weapon. The power to destroy stars lay at the heart of the cathedral mastered by the Celestial Priesthood. In an instant she understood why the priests made their home above such a weapon. She understood why only rumors about the Orrery circulated. The truth had terrified her into silence. However, she still fought with herself. Part of her was willing to make the sacrifice and destroy the alien threats to the Vaanshii no matter the cost. But there was also the part of her that knew why she was loved by the common people. For a moment, Sekhmet stretched out an arm toward the closest orb of light suspended in the Orrery. Thoughts and feelings conflicted within her mind until she finally closed her hand upon dead air. “I can’t,” she said softly.

“I am gladdened by this,” Ra said. “You understand know why I chose to show this to you?”

“To make me see the truth of it,” she answered. In that moment, she felt like she had as a young girl being scolded by her teachers.

“And hope that you’re reason and love for your people would be stronger than your hate and violent nature. I understand your feelings, Sekhmet, and why you gave up your titles and holdings to fight.”

“You do?”

“Indeed. And I, in my own quiet way, support your cause. Those among the upper class who see you as a lordless brigand do not have the perspective to see that warriors like you are needed to ensure that the younger races do not spread too fast for their own good.”

“Has…the Orrery ever been used?” she asked, finally turning to look at Ra.

“It has,” Ra said gravely from behind his impassive golden mask. “Once there was a time when the Orrery was used to…prune the galaxy as one would a garden. But it was done with great care, as destroying a star before it’s time can upset the cosmic balance. But, let us return to the surface.”

Set nervously awaited the return of the lift, trying not to show his nerves to the gathered priests. He wondered if she would choose to make use of the weapon and worried of the consequences of such an act. His mind wandered to the possible terrors of the weapon until the return of the lift brought him back to reality. Ra and Sekhmet stepped out of the lift and Set sensed a change in the woman, like she had received some kind of revelation.

“I am pleased to say that Sekhmet the Traveler declined to use the Celestial Orrery,” Ra announced.

Set felt the tension vanish as the collected priests seemed to let out a collective, electronic sigh of relief. “However,” Ra went on, “I have decided to give her several of our war priests as a show of gratitude for her wisdom and support for her cause.”

The other priests murmured to one another before Osiris spoke up. “I would second such an action.”

After a few shocked looks at his words, the rest of the gathered leaders nodded in acceptance of Ra’s decision. Set was certain that Sekhmet would be beaming if she still had the ability to.

“So, what was it?” Set asked while he and Sekhmet watched several ranks of Celestial Harbingers, the title given to the priesthood’s warriors, board vessels to join her legions from a second-level balcony of the cathedral.

“What?” she asked, seeming to snap out of a trance.

“The Celestial Orrery,” Set said. “What kind of weapon was it?”

“One with a price too great for me to use,” she said. “And I will leave it at that, Set.”

He nodded, knowing it was pointless to pursue a topic when she said that. He showed his understanding by simply placing his hand over hers where it rested on the balcony railing. Her head snapped around at the touch and once more eyes of ice stared into snake eyes.

[Atrum Daemon]

The Assassination

Record begins. Planetary location: Tharsis Prime. The midday sun shines in through the curtains of the large windows that look out on the sprawling cityscape. The room is rented out to a man named Mael Vargas and his friends. Of course, there is no Mael Vargas, not really at least. The name is a common pseudonym I use when on assignments and, thanks to the work of the Office, Mister Vargas’ papers are all genuine. The name is not mine anymore than The Coordinator is. However, for the purposes of this job, I have been given a codename along with the three other assassin I am coordinating.

The suite I have purchased with Office funds is very spacious and able to house myself and my three companions comfortably, which is why I chose it for our base of operations. I find myself once again before a series of video screens viewing parts of the city. In one, I see the city through the eyes of The Eagle, our marksman. In another, I view The Wolf moving among the crowds. I can see our Pariah in a third and a smirk plays across my face.

Our mission, you ask? Well, it is quite simple, to be honest. All the high-ranking members of the planetary government are traitors and must be eliminated. Now, let us take a look at how my comrades are faring.

***

He could hear the crowd all around him, focusing on individual voices and conversations at will. The Wolf, clad in an unassuming suit of forest green, walked among the large crowds of the city’s market district. He picked up a small fruit and examined it, keeping one eye on a gentleman ahead of him in a grey formal shirt. The Wolf knew the man to be an attendant to Magnus Cal, a city provost and a target for assassination.

The assassin shook his head and dropped the fruit back onto the stand as he resumed his shadowing of attendant. He adjusted his tie as he noted the attendant’s quickened pace and determined route. The Wolf let out an annoyed sigh as the attendant slipped into a side-alley, stepping up his pace to keep his eyes on the man. The assassin turned into the alley and immediately slid into the nearest doorway alcove when he saw the attendant was meeting someone.

“Were you followed?” the deep voice of the unknown party asked.

“No. No one followed,” answered the attendant, sounding a bit nervous.

“Good. We have the package. The usual spot. The usual time.”

The Wolf slowly slid his head out from the alcove to see the unknown party walk away and leave the attendant alone, looking around nervously. The Wolf slid into the shadow of the doorway as the attendant walked by and out into the street.

“Boss,” Wolf said to his ear piece. “The jam is moldy in the kitchen. The rolling rabbit gathers no moss.”

“Don‘t start that code phrase nonsense with me, Wolf.”

“Sorry. The attendant is picking up a package later. I’m going to keep following him. He suspects nothing.”

***

The wind whistled through the high tower tops of the city’s business district. Perched atop one such tower was a lone individual in a black, form-fitting bodysuit. He wore a black hood with a white mask over his face which connected to a heavy-framed sniper rifle by a small visual cable. Through the weapon’s scope, The Eagle viewed his target area. His scope zeroed in on a corpulent corporation CEO sitting in a top floor meeting room. Through the wide window, The Eagle could clearly see the back of the fat man’s bald head. The sniper knew the man to be guilty of accepting brides and consorting with criminal elements under the order of the Lord Governor. The Eagle squeezed his trigger once and the fat man’s head exploded in a mist of blood and bone fragments.

“Corporate target down,” the sniper reported.

“Noted. Move to the next,” the Coordinator ordered. “And be prepared to move in on primary prey at any time.”

“I hear you,” the Eagle replied.

***

The warehouse district is often called the worst district of the city. The district allows crime to fester in it’s cracks and unseen places that the police can not, or will not, go. The buildings of the warehouse district are often found caked in grimy layers, which some gangs draw their symbols in to mark their territory.

The assassin called The Pariah, dressed in a simple purple jacket and dark trousers, stalked the interior of a warehouse in the district. In truth, the man was not satisfied with being chosen for a team assignment. He specialized in hunting down rogues who possessed psychic talents due to his implanted ability to negate all psychic energy. So far, the high government had not shown any ties to psychic covens. However, with the Coordinator’s efforts, a coven with potential links to the planetary junior provost had been rumored to hide in the warehouse district. The Pariah smiled inwardly as one of his mental implants alerted him to psychic energy being discharged on the basement level.

He checked in the inside of his jacket to make sure he had brought his compact, automatic pistol as he approached the basement door. Pariah carefully removed the glove from his left hand to allow the strange, mechanical exoskeleton to come to life. The assassin carefully opened the basement door, wincing as the old hinges creaked loudly. Pariah began his careful descent of the stairs, creeping like some ghost stalking a mansion’s halls.

The psychic coven, a group of ten psychically active males, sat at a table in the basement level. They were all chortling and talking about the payment they were receiving from the junior provost. The Pariah, after hearing them mention several accounts of murdering the provost’s political and personal enemies, deactivated the limiter device that kept his anti-psychic blanket in check.

All the psychics in the basement cried out in shock and minor agony as their minds were assaulted by the Pariah’s blankness. The assassin shouldered the door open and fired two bursts with his automatic pistol, causing two of the psychics to crumple to the ground. The other psychics leapt from the wood table, trying and failing to turn the assassin into a telekinetic rag doll. The mechanical device on Pariah’s left hand flashed and let forth a bolt of psychic energy that it had consumed from the air in the room. The bolt tore into one of the psychics, ripping a section of his torso clean off.

Pariah was quickly forced to duck back through the doorway as the remaining psychics began firing small arms, the bullets kicking up white dust where they hit the wall and floor. He leaned out and returned fire with his automatic pistol, one of the shots striking the head of one target and making him slump to the ground. A second bolt from the psychic energy glove burst the chest of a second target. Pariah cursed loudly and dropped his pistol as a lucky shot struck his upper arm. Hissing through the burning pain, Pariah modified the setting in his glove to cover and wider area and let loose with the strange weapon. The heads of the remaining psychic’s burst like melons and one of the weaker targets even turned inside out.

Pariah retrieved and holstered his pistol before gripping his bleeding arm and tracing his steps back up the stairs. He reasoned that if the junior provost could afford a small coven of psychics, then it was not impossible that the provost and Lord Governor also had such teams.

***

To say I think of myself as an intelligent man would be a minor understatement. In order to be chosen as a Coordinator, I had to show signs of near genius intellect. I had worked out every possible primary and secondary plan with a number of fallbacks. I have to ensure the assignment will come to a successful completion. I hand picked the assassins under me for their abilities and enhancements.

The Wolf is augmented with reflex-boosting implants as well as sensory implants for his nose and ears, all combined to make him a fearsome combatant. The Eagle’s enhancements come more from intense training than implants. His only implants are the ones in his skull to improve his eyesight. The Pariah, now here is an interesting one. Out of the three, he is probably the most heavily altered. In addition to the cranial implants to make him able to blank out psychic power, that glove of his can absorb psychic energy and store it for use as a potent ranged weapon. I don’t pretend to understand how it works, I just know the results can be gruesome.

I find myself pleased with the reports of my comrades. Wolf still tracks Provost Magnus’ attendant. With luck, he will be able to retrieve not only the package, but the man’s face. The video screens show me that Eagle has removed another of the Lord Governor’s corrupt business contacts. Tonight will be the night we strike at them all. The Lord Governor, the Provost, and the junior provost will die. The planetary government will then be cleansed to begin anew. I am giddy with the prospect of success. I set down the glass in my hand so as not to drop it in my excitement. I tend to get in such a way when an assignment begins moving toward a successful end.

***

The sun began to set on the expansive city, casting colors of gold and orange-red on the tall buildings and windows in every district. The crowds began to thin in the streets of the merchant districts while they swelled in the business districts and the citizens made their ways home. The citizens fell into their normal evening routines, ignorant of the events in motion to change their world forever.

The Wolf stalked his prey through the back-alleys of the business district, hugging shadows and dark places as he followed the attendant. His senses, heightened by various nerve implants, were all tuned to the attendant as he shadowed the man. The Wolf’s pace quickened as the attendant entered a small storage building at the back of an administration complex. The assassin stopped before the metal slab that served as a door and carefully eased it open.

The attendant was the only person inside and had busied himself extracting a package from among the contents of a self. The Wolf stepped inside, sliding a knife from his sleeve, and slammed the door. The attendant let out a yelp of fear and spun around, dropping the box back on the self. A grin spread across Wolf’s face at how easy a part of his job had become.

The attendant died with one strike of the knife as his throat opened wide. The Wolf took a sample of the man’s blood on the blade and produced a small bottle and needle from his suit jacket. He added the man’s blood to the blue liquid in the bottle, which fizzed slightly before calming. Filling the needle halfway, the assassin injected the serum into his neck. Using the surface of the knife as a makeshift mirror, he watched as his face altered to perfectly match the man who lay dead before him. Grinning wolfishly, the assassin exchanged clothes with the attendant and took the package. He knew the attendant’s final destination was the office of the provost and planned to arrive in the man’s place while wearing his face. The Wolf walked out of the storage building wearing sheep’s clothing.

***

The Eagle had been in his position for hours. He had found the perfect vantage point to assist his comrades in the killing of all three targets, who were gathering at the home of Magnus Cal. From the roof of an adjacent building, the Eagle could easily sweep every major window of the house. The added bonus of his mask being able to see in multiple light spectrums meant that he could perform his task even if the targets were away from windows.

Not a muscle on the man moved, his body specifically trained to be able to wait in a single position for very long periods of time. Only the rising and falling of his chest showed any sign that he was alive. His mask automatically compensated for the changing light as the sun set behind the horizon, letting the sniper maintain his ready position.

***

Pariah was waiting just inside the gate to Provost Cal’s home. He had been instructed to wait until the fourth assassin made it to the scene before acting. His eyes were drawn to the gate as it opened and a black car carrying the provost’s attendant drove through. “The Wolf is among the sheep,” Pariah said quietly into his ear piece.

“Excellent,” the Coordinator replied, sounding pleased. “Be ready on my word.”

Pariah turned his eyes to the sky, mentally going through a mantra to keep his nerves steady. Taking a deep breath, Pariah stole from his hidden position to get closer to the mansion.

***

“You had no problems, then?” Magnus asked Wolf as the man wearing his attendant’s face gave him the box.

“No, sir,” Wolf replied, perfectly imitating the attendant’s voice.

The assassin took a nervous look around the study. The provost, junior provost, and Lord Governor were all there along with their guards. The guards made Wolf the most uneasy as they were all heavily armed and in greater number than were predicted. The Wolf looked at the three targets, taking in their appearances. The provost was a slender man with wide cheekbones and a small mouth; the junior provost was a portly man with a round, shaved head that was similar to a sporting ball; the Lord Governor was the oldest of the three and was obviously in the best shape, having a large and athletic frame. In the ideal scenario, Wolf would have gone for him first, but the provost was the closest to him.

The box was opened, much to the pleasure of the Lord Governor and junior provost. “Commence the purge,” the Coordinator said over the shared communication link as a glowing object was lifted from the box.

The Wolf’s fangs showed as he struck with his hidden knife. The provost was killed instantly as the blade pierced his skull. The Wolf was thrown onto his back as a pair of machine guns tore into him. The two guards who had fired were killed as a bullet pierced each of their skulls. Shouting unintelligibly to one another, the Lord Governor and the junior provost were rushed out of the room by their personal, psychic guardians.

In the rush and continued sniper fire, the Governor and junior provost were separated. The fat man and his psychic found their way into the basement levels, only to be stopped by the Pariah as the assassin let his psychic blankness unfold. The junior’s psychic was killed by Pariah’s strange, mechanical glove and the fat, whimpering provost was shot through the forehead.

The Lord Governor and his guards crashed through the roof access door. Both of his guards were thrown to the ground as the backs of their heads were blasted out. The Governor’s eyes narrowed as the white-masked assassin stepped forward, his heavy pistol trained on the man’s face.

“This stops nothing,” the Governor growled. “There are and will be others like us!”

“Then we’ll kill them, too,” The Eagle said simply before firing. The heavy bullet popped the Governor’s head like a ripe melon.

The purge of the high government had been completed and three of the original four assassins lived.

***

I find myself disappointed with the results. As the Coordinator, I cannot help but feel the sadness of loss when one of my charges is killed and the disappointment in myself. I feel somehow responsible for it, like I did not prepare enough. But, I know I am just making excuses. Not every mission can go perfectly and I am sure the Office will be pleased with the success despite the loss of the Wolf.

I can remember the names of every agent lost under my coordination. Both their code and real names. I do not have the drive to go through the list now. For the moment, I wish to drink in both celebration and grief. The brief respite will calm my mind and soul for the next assignment. I know the next one can not be too far off. I will diligently continue my work of doling out justice from the shadows, no matter what. End of record.