RP Buried Beneath The Tears of Ankh'Yula, Escape From Shu

Ira

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-Welcome, to Shu-
Shu is not a beautiful moon. Its dark skies are permeated with a thick, grey miasma that holds strong over every inch of visible surface. Light barely filters through the atmosphere from the nearby blue star, but this does not bother the Shu-ites. Shu not a terribly large moon, there are no more than 10,000 continuous, planet spanning levels of hive steel beneath its surface. In addition, there are no more than 5,000 surface levels of industries. But this too, bothers not the Shu-ites.

For the Shu-ites are a simple people. Squat, thickly built, hairless dwarves, Shu-ites are genetically bred to see in the dark, be practically immune to industrial pollutants, and live no more than fifty years to the hour. They were made to dig in the ground of Shu, to extract the powerful and valuable minerals within, and bring them back for sure by their gods. For hundreds of years, they have toiled and labored faithfully without revolt.

But the minerals have dried up.




For the past fifty years, no ship has left Shu with fresh, virgin material. Instead, the Shu-ites dutifully tear apart that which is not needed and that which they could do without, sending it along as tribute instead. The illegal communities and black markets, having thrived before in the hive-steel tunnels, now fight the Shu-ites tooth and claw. Their neighborhoods and their townships were the first deemed 'unneeded.' As a result, an unending war has been waging all over and under the surface of Shu.

It is not uncommon to see soldiers imported in, warriors to fight the corruption and illegal communities. Nor is it uncommon to see Shu-ites carted out by the thousands to underground corpse-farms, where their bodies feed the Deadhead bees to produce the narcotic 'Black Honey.' With every death, the illegal trades grow, and the Ankh'Yulians seem to allow anyone to leave Shu who can afford the toll. Even more so if they can afford the 'look the other way' toll. The gods are nothing if not pure capitalists.

But something is changing. It can be felt in the heavy, smog laden air on the surface. The Shu-ites seem tenser than usual, their guttural cries and growls grow all the more desperate with each passing day. Something is wrong. Even you can feel it, whether you are crawling in the darkest levels or scraping across the highest air-platforms.

For whatever reason, you have come to Shu. Perhaps you are trapped here, perhaps you have been brought to wage war in the name of the gods, or perhaps you seek other disgruntled sentients to add to a war machine. For the log of the gods, describe it to me.

Why are you here?


 



An Explanation

Shu did not understand the value of its own dead. It found value in other things: in work and in steel, and in these recent times when there was not enough of either, in life. The corpses resulting from the burgeoning war were seen as a necessary evil, not as the desirable product of the process. Unfathomable as this might have been, the result was that there were others who were quite willing to freeze the bodies in cryo-fluid and ship them off elsewhere in vast transports.

Eshe would have preferred to be elsewhere. This was not her world and these were not her people, and she did not like being separated from her canopic fluid storage by such a distance. She could operate for seven months after an injection, but the universe was vast, and she did not yet want to become a part of that unthinking emptiness. The other Sekhem, Ammon, was returning to Duat Mechane with the collected shipment of bodies, and her place was to remain here and continue collections until he returned. She would take back the next shipment, in her time.

For someone who thought themselves accustomed to solitude, Eshe found herself missing his presence. Even his strange tendency to hold conversations with his ghoul-Jackals, though it had annoyed her at first, seemed conspicuously absent. Eshe supposed she could do likewise and hold a conversation with one of those, but puppeting their voices into words of her own creation seemed too much an oddity. She preferred hers to be silent when speech wasn't necessary, as if they chose to keep their counsel hidden.

She knew, of course, that they had no counsel, for once the personalized fuel-fluid had run out, the unpersonalized productions of the Resurgence Machine would offer only mobility, not thought. Some feared the transition; others welcomed it. Eshe had yet to decide. For now, her thoughts were her own - and though her orders were not, she must follow them nonetheless. The dead must come to Duat, and if they did not do so on their own, then the Black Jackals would be there to herd them there.

 
BEFORE - CYGNUS XI.

"Sharper than any razor. Behold the GRID - see how it renders them equal in death, as they are equal before law!"

Soren announced the execution of the noble before a vast crowd. The gray atmos of Cygnus XI was suffocating. Bato stood on a podium the revolutionaries had erected in the heart of the city. Their cell had activated and moved with terrifying swiftness, slaying guards and detonating caches of explosives meticulously placed in strategic locations. The open execution of the rich had affixed the label of terror to their group - one which Publius had predicted. He had proclaimed it - those who supported liberty were patriots. Those who opposed it were traitors. Failure to give it open support made them suspect. The Grid would root these elements out through revolutionary terror.

Soren was thin, wiry, hawklike. He carried out his task with great zeal. The pleading noble was loaded into the device for all to see, and after a second passed, the spindly man shouted into his vox:

"Royalty is the embodiment of an eternal crime. A crime against life itself. The sentence is death!"

He fired the Grid, and that was that. The crowd cheered.

Not far off, Publius watched approvingly. He sat on the balcony of a stone fortress that had been seized from the noble family; a decadent palace which overlooked the square, now ransacked and bleached in Cygnite blood. Much attention had been paid to him, but he had let Soren carry out the lists today. Soren, who plotted against him even now - ambitious Soren. In his hands, the Revolution would collapse. He would kill too many of his own men, suspecting him of the very treason he now plotted against Publius, his commander. To a thief, all men steal. So too with schemers.

Bato - loyal Bato - approached Publius with a report. Bato's lower torso had been replaced with a large rotary cannon, and his heavy mechanical footfalls betrayed his approach. He found Publius multitasking - observing the executions, dictating strategy, and - most surprisingly - poring over a quadrexa board. Chess, the ancient game played on tricolor tiles - white, black, and red - with numerous tiny statuettes, all representing royals, buildings, knights, bishops, and soldiers. Publius held a cross-shaped piece in his right hand - the enormous fingers of the gauntlet pinching it delicately as he sat in deep thought.

"Publius," his gun-bodied lieutenant began, bowing; the bald man raised his hand in response, and bade him rise.

"No bowing. We are equals, Bato - how many times must I remind you?" he said laboriously, outwardly vexed by the display of subservience. The cyborg quickly stretched to his full height.

"Apologies."

"Sit with me."


Publius turned to the game.

"The Grid hungers, sir."

"It will be fed."


Publius replaced the cross-shaped piece on the table.

"It is time. We are going to the Tears, Bato," he announced, fixing the cyborg in his gravitic gaze. The enormity of the words struck the metal-chested warrior like a train. The domain of the gods. The only place beyond the Emperor's reach. They were mounting an assault on Heaven.

The Ankh'Yulians had ships the size of worlds. The Revolution had a disjointed fleet of corsairs, swarmfighters, and five cruisers. It would be impossible to win.

But then, Revolution had seemed impossible - before Publius. Did he have a plan?

The Architect of Terror continued:

"Religion is old, Bato. It has existed for as long as there has been suffering. When man prospers, he thanks his God. When man suffers, he curses him. In some religions, his God comes down to suffer as man does. In that his God had suffered of his own will, suffering was no longer unjust, and all pain then made sense. When his God suffers with him, man can bear any hardship. When his God has paid his debt."

Publius tapped his fingertips together.

"I know what we fight. The Ankh'Yulians claim divinity. They walk the material worlds, but they do not suffer with us. So close, and so far. And even if it were all justified in the end - the bloodletting that built this palace we have seized, the endless carnage and toil which supplies them - the gore machine, even if its operation were ultimately right - I would persist in my revolution. It must end."

"Sir - it is suicide."

"Cosmic suicide,"
he agreed. His eyes wandered to the chess-board.

"In this game, Bato, you win by killing the enemy's Emperor. But we know that in real life, it's not so simple. Another will replace him. Even if you pull out the entire family, root and stem - the idea will persist. I am designing a new game - a game which captures hearts, minds - not territory. Not Emperors. And on the moon of Shu lies the key. A secret which I have found. That is where we will find their weakness, and our strength."

The Grid fired again in the plaza, bathing the black and white square in a flash of red.

"That is where the game changes - forever."
 
Angels and Autoshells


12 Hours Ago

Ash hued skies linger over a battlefield in a distant district of the moon. A rundown city built around mines, mines now rundownnas much as the city. It's people rundown by the trade of the world stripping them down to nothing. Or so they claimed, it was easier to day this then the truth. That the last vestiges of resources and tools were mounted to take to the offensive. Above the mines battle broke out the doubts of weaponsfire echoing off once empty streets. The bleak almost monochrome colors wash away as flashes of azure light race down roads. Vibrant red lights Lance back in returning fire. Plasma tools for mining were modified into plasma weapons aiming to scorch away the loyalists of this moon.

A tank rolls in. The electromagnetic discharge of weapons had grown heavy ruining its hover tracks. Diluting the ability to go over the debris the machine of war switched to treads. Abandon vehicles crushed beneath heavy wheels. Fresh is the smoke choking the air as its cannon comes alive and dispenses a heavy shell. It's roar like thunder one dwarfed by the explosive follow up. A building splits in two by the missile. As the structure falls the insurrectionists are revealed. From the building behind it they were in waiting.

Tools of war here were crude. Mix of chains and pulling systems, a trebuchet crafted from what had been elevator parts. They swung a payload though of demolition charges retrofitted into a bomb. It careers through the air thudding against the tank and in a flash of tangerine light the vehicle is erased from existence. Troops begin to fall back, they couldn't take more explosives like that. They only had one tank and one Ptah for this deployment. "We need to retreat. We're outgunned."

"Negative. Moving in now."


Hekari Ptah had been dealing with the outskirts leading into the city. The rebellion had a plethora of illegal ballistics weapons they had stockpiled. Food for rations and bills had gone to funding their war effort. The Shu forces had lost one platoon to the weapons in the opening salvo. The presence of a Djed had helped take attention off the tank though allowing it to make its way into the city.

A trebuchet loads again, from the building it's to high for the rifles to reach. Comparatively the plasma continues to descend on the enemy making shots hard to get off even if they could reach. The explosive is readied, a soldier goes to set the timer and then a whistle is heard. The top of the building vanishes in a flash of violet light and smoke before a third of the building erupts into a vibrant orange hue. Her antipersonel rocket obliterates the unit manning the weapon. The explosion triggers the insurections own. That detonation a more powerful sort reaches storage of other explosives and fuel sources below. Which culminated in the destruction of much of the building. Weakened by the blast allows the mech to smash through the fractured wall.

A unit of six turns in surprise to see a machine of war hard to miss. Heated from the flight the wings on its back were gold the glow illuminating the armor in all its overly painted splendor. A vibrant pink mech that could be spotted even by troops below giv r its contrast to everything else. The scene soon looks to drown the gold in mixes of ice blue plasma discharging as rebels look to gundown the mech. The colors wash into the machines own as the shield absorbs the blasts. A large gun raises toward them barrels rotating to life in a small volley of shells. The three rebels closest are flown backwards. The sight vanishes from view as from thr bodies explodes a jade cloud. The smoke hiding the poisonous after math.

A crack of the sound barrier as the mech bolts from the building. It's auto cannon turning on the gunmen above her own troops. Thick green clouds lingering where her gunfire goes....

 Now

"Honored are they those who tread the field. Adorned in armor it's a tomb they weild. Gone in fire an angel avenges with violet yield. The skies turn forest, remade a killing field."


In a bar sat Hekari a woman of short stature. She wrote in a journal seeming more a muse then veteran. Her pen tapping ocasionally as looking for a rhythm. She stood out some given her soft blue skin clearly otherworldly on the moon. A Ptah, once a planet known for art had become just a branch of war. It's people left to pilot machines and build weapons. One could see it in the young woman's eyes someone wishing she knew yesterday stuck in the present. Some world's minded age, if Shu had Hekari didn't know. One of the soldiers had bought her a drink all the same.

They filled the bar in revelry. Cheers and telling of the coral angel coming to their aid. They wanted brothers in arms to know of their victory and how Hekari assured it. Hek though couldn't share the delight. She saw through the flashes of light what remained of those soldiers in the tank. Her heart like any of Ptah could hear the words to those she slayed. Whispered prayers to lovers and children. She was to be an agent of war, bloated bodies spilling acrid smoke though haunted her memories.

News covered the scene a holographic projection in the bar showed soldiers fighting and the Djed mech tonsave them. While Hekari didntnlook like much her cybernetic arm also spoke who she was. Same color scheme as the Djed. Her people known for a cyberneticlinked to their Djed. Those who didnt know the Ptah still could likely put two and two together. Those who did know of them would know for sure that DJ Dead as the Djed was titled was hers.


"Long does the angel wish to be washed away by the sea. Told instead to lay autofire down with glee. Long does the angel wish to be free. Left corpses instead smoke rising like a tree." There's a wence from her. She doesn't like the verse, trying to come up with better as she sits in the bar.



 
-Gerard Albertus Imperator-


Gerard Albertus Imperator knew a secret.

His dark brown eyes sat hidden behind a set of thick, round-framed glasses. The blackened glass concealed the gentle glow of gold that occasionally arced and traced across the whites of his eyes, the only gift his lineage ever truly gave him. They occasionally twitched back and forth from the glass of ale in his hands and the
Ptahran that sat not too far from him.

The
Ankh'yulians had not 'called' the Ptahrans here, per se, Gerard knew. But the Shu-ites were willing to pay, and for a species so retooled for war as the Ptahrans, well- they would accept any amount for violence. War used to be such a rare thing. Gerard did not know of a time where it had been rare, of course, he had not lived such a life. But a hundred years ago, resources had been abundant, art had flourished, and violence was so rare.

But times had changed, and Gerard Albertus Imperator knew a secret.

Sighing, the young man tapped his six fingers on the table. He heard the
Sekhem of Duat Mechane had arrived some years ago. That terrified him far more than the industrial and power-hungry Ptahrans. Ptahrans fought in service to their leaders, for money, and for industry. The damnable dogs of Duat Mechane fought in service to their terrible machine, for survival, and for the gods.

The
Ankh'yulians allowing them to perform their work here could only mean one thing, a single fact reinforcing the truth of Gerard's secret. Removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes, he allowed himself a single uncovered peak at the Ptahran writing in a book before replacing the rims and standing up. Downing the alcohol, he grimaced at the terrible taste and set the glass down with a few plasteel credits. Imperial credits were as good here as anywhere, it was mandated.

Gerard Albertus Imperator knew a secret, and he needed to tell it.

Moving toward the
Ptahran woman's table, Gerard spoke, "May I?" Before sitting down without waiting for an answer. The Ptahrans fought alongside the Shu-ites against the tide of criminals and revolutionaries that had flooded Shu over the past hundred years. Unrest, desperation, and dissatisfaction bred those sorts of sentients. A hundred years ago, such things would be unheard of according the to annuls of the Imperial Histories. But times had changed, hadn't they?

This was the era of the
Eternal Conflict, or so Gerard had coined it. Looking at the woman across from him, Gerard found her beautiful. They were made to be beautiful, of course, a terrible fate for those who lived to take life. There was another on this Tear, one of many seeking to dismantle the Empire. The forbidden immortal, Publius, and his revolution had spread to this moon. Neither he nor any among him could compare to the beauty of the woman before him.

Did beauty mean so much to the
Harennaise? Perhaps. Genetics were the pinnacle of all that mattered. This woman was a great example of genetic work, so it was natural that Gerard would admire her. But was he admiring her beauty in the disconnected way of a scientist- or in the filthy way of a man? Frowning, Gerard spoke, "I know a secret. Shall you hear it?"

He did not wait for a response, he simply told her.

"
We are all going to burn."
 
Portrait And Fire


Her thoughts settle and she goes to sip on the drink a crew member had gotten her. She savored the drink for what it was. A mix of luxuries and horror for a Ptahran. On her tongue she could pick up the hint of fruity flavorings of the drink in the glass before her own. Something soft, more to her liking but not what soldiers ordered. She could taste the ice, the slight difference in chemicals that told of different water sources used to obtain it. The strong taste of alcohol battled with the acidity of cleaning solutions used to try and purge the glass from previous use. The alcohol itself she thought good. Least it was something made by a race that liked to drink. It was stiff and she thought having a bite.

"Victory is the drink, whiskey and a bite. Never does it make the night right. Wishing itd drown out the sight..." She was about to take pen to the book and start anew. Try for more verses, until someone approached her. A sight to give the woman pause. His uniform didn't say someone she had just fought alongside. It was also to close to an ally to be someone she shot. She wasn't sure how to feel about that. Hekari did wonder what hymns and ballads might the rebels have written? Though maybe it was better such victims weren't here. The artist didn't really like fighting outside of her battle suit. The man took a seat, there was a question but no time given to answer. Her eyes lingered on the individual. Looks weren't anything to complain over maybe to much so.

Ptahran were artists they saw shapes and forms. A structure could be made by a dozen races and a Ptahran could point out each one. She remembered stories of a time where it was that way with people to. Their skills were one day taken in to help more with police sketches though then artistic endeavors. Her talents in identifying people in the end escaped her. She couldn't identify who someone was with skills alone. She did pick up on subtle glows that added an intrigue to one's figure an additional hook. It didntngive answers though. The glow could mean something, or it could mean someone faking it to try and be someone. He spoke of secrets though and that did get her attention.

Beauty was plenty, mystery though was a beauty yet explored. Maybe it was the young engineer and architect in her but the attention was seized. Only to be answered with cryptic measure. "That's not a secret. Least for Ptah, we fight till lives forfeit. Burning enemies till a ignited commet. Why the rest though?"

She didn't want to be to dismissive she was interested. Might be drunk ramblings or conspiracy hard to know yet, still her attention was held. She just wasn't as concerned of burning either. She grew up wanting to build, paint and sing, they made her craft weapons, slaughter and know different sounds of gunfire. She figured one day DJ Dead would crash and burn thus so would she. A hand was offered to shake, the Ptah favored a gentle but two handed gesture. A race that didn't grip with tightness but did look to feel and study hands. They didn't offer a crushing vice but a warm inquisitive one. Looking to learn the lines of the hand and know its stories. To feel the skin was it soft or callous, did it tell of art work or war? Hekari's own were still soft but did have some hide to them worn down by working on machines. Her one hand cold to contrast the other, a limb of steel. Though it was additionally bit course painted rather then just smooth steel. Many Ptah had at least a hand of steel, few though were painted over.

 
NOW - SHU.

Publius and his entourage had disembarked from an orbital corsair in a cloaked shuttle, piercing the atmosphere of darkened Shu like a plummeting stone. The craft deployed its engines only when it was safe to do so, to avoid orbital tracking, or a stray unguided rocket. Accessing Shu had been difficult, but not impossible. Leaving would be considerably harder. Publius anticipated a challenge, and kept the details of their exfiltration between himself and Bato, his able lieutenant. The others in the group were trusted - competent fighters - but not keyed in on the details of their departure. Some may be left behind, dead or alive.

The surface was as ugly and degenerated as any blasted world. Centuries of extraction had made the planet into a churning gutmachine producing minerals and wartools. Only now, it was sick with conflict - the forces which sustained its life now spelling its inevitable doom. One of thousands of flashpoints, resource-driven conflict grinding men into blood and bone. Misery and mayhem greeted them, explosion-flash occasionally rippling acrosss the clouds. A stray missile could end the Revolution before it could even begin. But that was the risk he had taken coming to Shu. For here was the path to victory.


Taverns - the origin points of so many revolts. Where young men gathered to drink and commiserate, and eventually, to plot, to boast, to proclaim their rights and air their grievances. Publius had been much the same in his youth. And after days of spy networking, he had found the one he had come for. One of his men already sat within the tavern. Another walked with him on his way from their bunker, as a bodyguard. Finally, Bato remained stationed outside - the machine gun that made up his lower body, below his pectorals, was retracted, hidden under a brown cloak. In an instant, it could rev up, fire, and shred the entire alleyway.

The commander entered quietly, not looking to attract attention. The war here was a smokescreen - Publius would be recognizable by his face only to the well-connected. His name was known, but not his look - information was controlled in the Empire. That cut against them. The system they'd made would be their undoing. The carelessness - the greed. Freedom could not be suffocated. It found its own means of escape and growth. Liberty had a way of eluding its enemies - and taking revenge on them.

The bald man walked with purpose, arms crossed behind his back. On his right hand was his large gauntlet; a razor-thin suspensor field shimmered idly over his skin, nigh invisible to all but those with the sharpest senses. His eagle eyes centered on a man in the bar.

Gerard. There he was - sixfingered, bespectacled, and with a light beard. He was presently engaged with an unknown factor - a Ptahran, if his racial intuitions proved correct. Time was of the essence here, in public, and he, Publius, was doubtless marked for an assassin's blade. War was a game of risk, and from his position, he knew it was essential to capitalize on finding a member of the royal family here. This particular member.

What would he think, when he was approached by the Chief Revolutionary? That he would be seized, and forced into a Grid, cut to pieces before a cheering crowd? There was blood on the newcomer's hands. Enough to drown everyone on Shu, taken altogether. Freedom was a gory business - in this universe, at least. Were that things could be different.

Now, Publius would learn whether his intel would bear fruit - or whether there was another branch to trim away from the tree of revolt.

The man that stood before them had a bare, shaven head. His light armor was covered in robes of an almost ecclesiastical nature. His eyes were dark and probing, and his voice cut.

"M. Gerard," he spoke softly in his icy tone. He added a disarming, courteous smile. "And madam."

Publius gestured softly to the table with the gauntleted hand; the other remained behind his back.

"Might I join?"

It was not really a request.
 
-The Realm of Gods-


Men-nefer

The glory of the
Ankh'Yulian fleet, the pinnacle of engineering prowess and skill. No- it was so much more than that. It was the pinnacle of all mechanical existence. The logistics needed to assemble and crew it- the money and energies needed to power it- everything about the Men-nefer was the sheer peak of Ankh'Yulian existence.

And by his eternal flesh, Rameses The First hated it.

Pinnacle of existence- a
Grand Machine? A soulless monstrosity that consumed the energies of trillions of living souls to fuel a giant metal GUN!? A construct so large that it possessed internal bio-spheres that had begun to organically evolve on their own-? But what was the most fascinating thing about it?! The biospheres-? the internal workings-? The fuel and the process by which it operates?! No! NO! None of that! The most fascinating thing the College of Cardinals found about the Men-nefer was the useless fact that it was a big bloody GUN

Rameses The First brushed a hand across one of the many statues that lined the circular inward landing platform. If he dared, he could tear the whole statue apart and toss it down to the surface of the star, φ-Menah, below. But such would be so futile a resistance. No, something grander had to be done. He would need to destroy this whole thing.

Turning his eyes from the platform, Rameses The First observed the orbital weapon in the center of the massive circular ring. The Men-nefer had been constructed as a set of seven rings, each larger in diameter than a Tear of Ankh'Yule, circling around a single, suspended weapon floating in midst of it. The weapon, the size of a Tear of Ankh'Yule but twisted and pulled into an elongated shape, pulsed with the lifeforce of a trillion beings from across the galaxy.

It spat in the face of his finest work, of his glorious Resurgence Machine. Had the College so quickly forgotten all of his efforts? Of her efforts? Crossing his arms behind his back, he made the motion of breathing in and out. There was no oxygen here, of course, out on his spacewalk, but he would practice the motion of breathing nonetheless. Holding out a hand, he commanded the machine to move.

And it obeyed.

On beautiful Ankh'Yule, the College of Cardinals, the Grand Council, and the Order of Spymasters would likely be immediately notified of his betrayal. But he cared not for them, nor their inevitable futile attempts to stop him. The soul energies in possession of the
Ankh'Yulians could only fuel one of their Grand Machines at a time, and Rameses The First had commandeered the Grand Machine, The Men-nefer. If they had taken Rameses The First's ideas and technology hundreds- no, more than hundreds, thousands of years ago, they would not be so vulnerable!

They had scorned Rameses The First for the last time. The only
Grand Machine capable of independent operation and possessing the firepower to stop him now was the Resurgence Machine, and it would brook no orders from anyone anymore. Across his perfectly pale features, the giant smiled and spoke aloud. His voice, like the songs of a thousand angelic choirs, echoed thousands of kilometers across the Grand Machine, the Men-nefer, and he said.

"
See the light of my wisdom,
Tremble and kneel before me.
Now, the time of my kingdom,
The kingdom of Rameses.
"
 
-Gerard Albertus Imperator-


Gerard opened his mouth, then closed it. Her words were poetry and truth. Twin loves of the academian within him. Her hand reached out, painted metal, and proffered itself for a customary intergalactic greeting. Without hesitation, his own hand swept forth. His five fingertips, sixth thumb retracted, brushed over the woman's palm in gentle acknowledgment of her sacrifice before gripping the metal firmly.

He did not shake the other hand, the one of cold skin, as Harennaise were not ones to overly engage with customs beyond their own. It would be seen as rude from any other species, but from the heirs of the Empire, it was only natural. Gerard calmly spoke in response to the woman, "
There is so much I must share, so much to divulge, but there is so little time. My name is-"

An icy voice interrupted him, "M. Gerard," it spoke. Gerard turned forth to see who approached, expecting an assassin with a blade drawn. Instead, something far worse stood beside the pair's table. Publius. Gerard knew the man's face, he was among a long list of people Gerard had been privy to knowledge of. But, despite knowing the man's presence on this moon, Gerard hardly believed he would come personally to meet the Unloved Son.

And yet, here he was.

"
Ah, uhm, yes. You may sit. You should not have come here, though. I'm afraid we're all going to burn."

It was not a threat, nor was it the vague doomsaying of a drunken man. Of course, it sounded like both of those things, but Gerard could not help his lack of tact. It was his power, his one strength. Not a gift, no certainly not that, but a curse. He could see it, the sands of times flowing through the hourglass and the flecks of souls that poured with it. He could predict these things, like natural disasters, and avoid them. But he had not avoided this one.

He had come straight to it. Why? He was still asking himself that question, but the sands had led him here. So he would continue following their flow, to hell or heaven, wherever it led.


 
Mechanical Embers



She didn't dwell on how the gesture was returned. Customs changed per people and sometimes per person. Additionally we hile it could have been seen as offensive it wasn't like Hekari to get to absorbed in such things. It wasn't who she wanted to be. She'd seen it before soldiers quick to jump to insult. Royalty who barked for executions when not respected. Victims of war who recoiled in further defeat. Hekari was neutral she didn't want more drama. She liked to think her a soldier for peace and what she wanted was to be an artist not involved in wars at all. She was however though forged to be good at war.

Another arrival, name given before it could be spoken. He seemed defensive, so a hand goes over the pink painted steel. A simple gesture meaning nothing to the outside world. Truthfully though a primer to DJ Dread instructing it to be ready in case of emergency. The pilot didn't crave violence she knew to be ready however. So in a hanger miles from the bar a machine of war turned on and warmed up. Ready for deployment if things should escalate. For all her cautions though she didn't know the actual man to join them. She was a soldier not a general, a cog in the machine not the one at the helm.

If Publius had means to dig for information at the moment. If his allies did. They probably could find out who Hekari was to, she couldn't do the same. In his many rebellions the coral hued mech had likely been seen. It was possible he was even involved with the rebels of today. He already knew Gerard it would seem. Role sat in some, superiors were at her table she detected. Important people where she was only of importance when cutting down people. People technically like herself...

"Hekari Ptah, servant of forge and war. Wishes beyond scourge, something more." She supposed her fascination with rhythm or rhyme should be dropped. Amongst these two superiors perhaps it was to amateur of art scene. Maybe they had been to worlds or around people allowed to create in peace. Still her cadence would remain, it helped her remain who she wanted to be. Day after day she saw blood and how it painted iron. She wasn't going to just relinquish her chance to express outside of patterns of shell casings and scorch marks.


"I'll ask again why the world? Why should a tear burn till cold? Ashed so the void of space take hold?"


The thought of it was intriguing, if not haunting. She had not laid eyes on a weapon that could truly do such a thing. She had seen bombardments. While her guns could leave clouds of poison she had seen Ptah ordnance used to poison clouds. Atmosphere meant to turn sickly, seen weapons crack cities as if always a canyon. Nothing though sounded so complete, and the source didn't seem as set on hyperbolic or artistic license. She believed him. Which bothered her the thought of such death. For the implied horror though she was raised to admire weapons. All the fear of implication what it could do, didn't replace the greater fear she wanted to see such a weapon. To study its craftsmanship. She didn't wish to see moons or planets burn but she longed to know if her art could reach such magnitudes all the same.

It'd be so much easier if the galaxy let Ptah paint and sing. Instead they forged artistry twisted for the forge.



 



A Requisition

It came not as a prophecy, but as a message. It occurred to Eshe to wonder what the difference was between the two, and whether there was one at all, and if the prophets spoken of in legends had been merely spies, and thus privy to information that seemed divine.

The gods were not on Shu - though the Spymaster thought they would be soon. Perhaps it was prophecy, after all.


"Rameses The First, glory upon his flesh, has diverted from expected courses of actions. His estimated time of arrival in orbit of Shu is approximately 5.51 Standard Minutes. The Men-nefer accompanies him. Prepare your assets, it will be required of you to resist his incursion.

"Glory to Ankh'Yule."

This was very little time to prepare for a prophecy. Eshe was also unable to fathom why it should be her, of all the millions of unbalanced souls remaining here on Shu. Her care was not for the living, but for the dead, and her assets were numbered at seven - eight, if she chose to include herself. She was Sekhem, after all.

Rameses the First was a whisper upon Duat Mechane. Not a legend, for a legend would be spoken of outright: praised, held in high regard, adored. This, he was not - but a whisper, certainly. Something found in quiet places, among the dead more than the living. It was said that the Resurgence Machine was his creation; it was said that the Resurgence Machine was his tomb, it was said that the Resurgence Machine was his greatest success; it was said that the Resurgence Machine was his greatest failure. Many things were said, in those whispers. It was possible that some of them might be true. It was possible that all of them might be true.

Eshe was not overly concerned with truth. She was, however, overly concerned with the Resurgence Machine, it being that to which she delivered the corpses, its inner workings extracting what essences they could, dividing them into the streams of the Duat and storing them, moving them, using them. People lived on, through the Resurgence Machine, in every ebb and flow. People - but not her.

No, that was to be one of the Black Jackals - to know that her body would be used as Mechane, used up and never released. It was a sacrifice, but the gods often demanded those. She had chosen, and was chosen. So it was to be. Perhaps that was why the prophet spoke to her - because Ramses' machine would never touch her. Or perhaps she was merely convenient. Convenience, Eshe felt, often had a great deal to do with the workings of prophecy.

Of the workings of the gods, she might have cared remarkably little, but the gods were merely the First part of the message. The other part, the Men-nefer - of this, too, she knew something. Monstrous, a giant among the stars, a killer of worlds. That bothered her - wasteful, it was, to destroy worlds. So many bodies lost, that would never find their way to the Resurgence Machine.

There were whispers, too, of Men-nefer. The whispers said it was the sibling of the Resurgence Machine, that it was the parent of the Resurgence Machine, that it was the bastard child. The whispers said that it devoured not the dead, but the living.

What would one do with the living, Eshe wondered?

Perhaps they were merely half-living, as she was.

What was it that Rameses the First was doing with such a thing? And why - not how, but why - was Eshe meant to stop him?

She was meant to respond to this message: Glory to Ankh'Yule, as was standard among the Ankh'Yulians. Eshe was Sekhem, though, and so responded only with the silence of the dead.

 
Publius merely scowled.

"Defeatism is an indulgence I can ill afford. And you are no good to me dead," he told the royal.


The bald revolutionary tilted his head in the Ptahran's direction.

Hekari.

She had the symmetrical beauty common to such types, but various drugs and treatments had long suppressed any affection he might have for her or any other. That, or iron will. A dismissive glance was followed by a slightly raised brow at her peculiar tendency to rhyme. A wry grin flashed for an instant across his features - the side of his lip slightly upturned in bemusement. The line between artist and killer sometimes thinned. Mayhaps he could find a use for her as well.

"I ask that both of you accompany me and my cohort. I," he paused, " - am Publius. I offer change."

A lie. Offers could be refused. But he knew how to apply a soft touch, when the situation called for it.
 
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