Chronicles of The Omniverse Archived The Onyx Galaxy

Following pleasantries, Chaska said few words on the trip back to the ship. Likewise the crew said little as they were escorted from their holding room back to the ship, opting instead to move towards the ship with relative haste, though they hadn't been mistreated, the general attitude of the crew was that of eagerness to leave, to return to the relative safety of their Empire.

Once seated within the relatively comfortable confines of the Ship, Chaska found herself with a moment alone, with her adviser, he seemed to have a look of concern on his face, but had said nothing to the Minister during their foray into the Dominion vessel.

"This is madness, Minister; you and I both know the Quorum won't budge, this is a political play and you know it." He hissed, leaning over in his seat while the attendant placed two cold glasses of ambrosia on the trays in front of their seat. Taking her drink, she leaned over to him. "While we're negotiating with the Dominion, the timeframe for the attack has not changed, it will still be a few hours yet until the missiles are armed and moved into position, I'm simply taking the liberty of trying to divert what can very well be a bloody conflict." She explained, sipping her drink. "It's extremely taxing on our resources to maintain a constant state of high alert, vigilantly guarding our borders from the various malcontents this world seems to breed. The propaganda might keep the people agitated, but the war weariness has begun to set in, the constant drills, civil service announcements, the propaganda." Chaska said, trailing off.

When the diplomatic team reached the Hangar, Chaska had already settled into the ship, and thus one of the staff greeted them, and ushered them into the ship.

The vessel's interior was furnished much like any other Aschen starliner, with dark blue carpeting and seats arranged to transport many people, this was where most of Chaska's staff was seated, rather Eisehart and Panderson were led through this front compartment, past a bulkhead into Chaska's section, which was more open, furnished with plush leather chairs and tables, once inside Chaska stood to greet them.

The rest of their staff were kept in the main area of the ship, to prevent Chaska's office from being crowded, as there was ample room for all of them, Chaska's Staff would introduce themselves one by one, and once everyone was settled in, the flight crew secured the fore and aft airlocks.

Once the introductions were made, Chaska cleared her throat, and got right to business. "You're the first foreigners to set foot on an Imperial world since the new government took power, the first foreigners to set foot on Langara in what has probably been years. Do as you're instructed, and this will go smoothly." Chaska warned. "If anyone in your staff have any ulterior agendas, I want to know now before we depart, because if they're discovered, it could jeopardize these talks, and your entire group could be held accountable. The Empire publicly executes spies." Chaska added. "I won't insist your people wear inhibitors, but our security will be prepared to deal with any incidents." She explained.

"Lastly, the Quorum is a fickle mistress, if my negotiations with your superiors are any indication, this whole thing is probably a giant waste of time, but I've been wrong before." She added, lowering herself in her seat.

"Make yourselves comfortable; it's going to be a long flight."
 
Ian and Kolby, after brief introductions, paid attention to their host as she spoke, settling themselves into seats as she did. The commander was the first to respond, having listened with the sort of attention one might expect on the parade ground.

"I will assure you, Minister, my staff have no motives other than the resolution of these talks with a direct meeting with the Quorum. Those left with your staff are in fact soldiers, but they are here because of their experience with negotiation and cooperation first, their ability to serve as guardians a distant second. While on the subject of our escort, their implants," The man tapped his own skull at the tip of the spine. "Having modifications that could be misconstrued as espionage agents. I can address them to disable the majority of these, but there is one I am aware of that cannot be disabled. A cartography module, using a collection of visual and sonic imaging to generate a three-dimensional map within the implant."

"Myself, Ms. Chaska, there is little cause for worry." Kolby Panderson's voice was gentle, with a soothing accent. Nevertheless despite his soft voice, he projected it easily, with no need to strain to hear him. "My abilities are primarily empathic, with little telepathic talent. I can sense your mood readily enough, but unless allowed by a subject, I cannot sense your thoughts, save when you happen to think them...er...loudly."

His chuckle sounded with a disarming smile. "As you can see, we merely bear our uniforms and a handful of datapads, a courtesy to your people's ease of mind. The closest you could call a weapon among this representative selection are our escorts in the main seating area, as the augmentations and implants they still possess currently are not the sort one can remove easily nor safely. However, feel free to sweep us for armaments, if it will ease your people's minds."

The Agent leaned back in his seat to await her response. Commander Eisehart did likewise, if more straight-backed than his fellow Dominionite.
 
Inside the flight deck, the crew were hard at work initiating pre-flight preps, by now the ship was moving, with the proper clearances they moved away from the docking port of the Dominion vessel, and out into the empty blackness of space.

Once they were a safe distance away, the captain keyed up the ship's intercom.

"Attention passengers, this is your captain speaking. We're making our final preparations for a Faster-than-light jump to the Tal'dor system, once we've cleared the checkpoint we'll proceed to the Langaran system, ETA is three Centars."

"I See." Chaska replied. "Well fortunately for all of us; security will be tight. There's a military parade going on right now, so the Quorum will want to finish viewing the parade before we begin our actual negotiations. I've already taken the liberty of sending word, they know you're coming and will convene to hear your case." Chaska explained, interrupted only by the brief distortion, and lapse sensation of the FTL Jump.

---

It was what was on the other side that would likely be the most disconcerting.

Once the jump was complete, the Aschen ship would find itself among hundreds of other civilian ships coming and going in tight formation, shimmering red beacons denoted the boundaries of the flight zone, where the planck fields weren't active so that vessels could come and go. Up ahead was a large structure, where incoming traffic was being diverted, there was a line, roughly four or five ships long. The holographic screens, caution lights, and other signage denoted they were heading towards a customs inspection station.

Beyond the shimmering red lights were Aschen vessels, thousands of them as far as the eyes could see, warships being fitted for battle, out the windows alone, a keen Dominion operative could count roughly ten thousand capital ships, just in their field of view. There were a dozen Reverence IIs, all hooked up to a large scaffold, being fitted, repaired, and upgraded for direct combat with the Dominion.

The sheer defenses were overwhelming, thousands of individual weapons bastions with overlapping fields of fire were carefully positioned in orbit above the planet, the exit checkpoint where ships were diverting off were being inspected, searched before proceeding to the planet below.

The ship they were on, however did not divert to this particular lane, rather it proceeded forward, the signage denoting the next FTL jump position.

Immediately to the starboard side, a large transport drifted past, mounted on it were hundreds of individual warheads, Tricobalt missile warheads for fitting aboard one of the Reverence IIs, this transport drifted past, before accelerating off towards a formation of Aschen warships.

Chaska checked her watch, and then leaned back in her seat.

"Every one of us will be thoroughly searched when we reach the inspection station, and then we'll be searched when we land, or rather you'll be searched." Chaska answered, before she peered out, eyeing a Command Carrier off in the distance.
 
Kolby gazed through the viewport, his expression neutral. "As expected, of course. I fail to see the need for a redundant sweep, but as the saying goes, 'When in Rome...'"

His staff were doing much the same, simply looking. Experience had all of them absent the possibly expected expressions of awe or fear, too inured at the sight of mass mobilization to have it be of interest. Habit merely made it an exercise in gauging measure, the unconscious reflex of assessing what they saw.

Ian was simply reclined in his seat, eyes closed, though his rhythm of breathing was of one awake. He made a gesture, half acknowledgement, half resigned dismissiveness.
 
The Equinox, stealthed flagship of the Paragon

​
"Open."

He came in from the dark like a ghoul, something vomited out of the grave. His cloak was in tatters, clinging to the shredded bits of his armor in a shroud of decay. Black blood poured from wounds torn in skin white as newborn maggots. Paragon had seen battle - it had nearly cost him his life.

"Orphic, wake-" He growled. His hands came to his mask and pushed at a button beneath his chin, deactivating his voice synthesizer. "Wake up. I need your help." The tone was deep, masculine, human-sounding; nearly the opposite of the graveling rasp which he usually sported.

He walked to a computer with a holo table. Taking a scalpel off a tray, he tore off what remained of his armor on his right hand and lay the flesh on the light. "Analyze." Data poured from the screen - pixels of blue and green strobing across the pale white of his mask. "Orphic, are you with me? I need you to prep a plasma saw and anesthetic. Began stem cell grafting for a new hand - the right, this time. About halfway up the forearm."

He flexed his fingers, grimacing at the pain. “...three quarters, actually.”
 
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Orphic sighed internally, and pointedly waited a few more seconds before she decided to heed Paragon's beckoning. It always bothered her that he always started with a command like 'Wake'--as though she were capable of sleep, or that she were ever inclined to rest. She dragged her attention away from the garbage entertainment she had collected from a plethora of unsecured security cameras and brought it back to the medical deck.

"Analyzing." She projected her voice as the typical monotone so characteristic in television shows and movies--a calm, almost soothing, but very generic female tone. "Analysis complete." At this point, she cut the act and allowed her real voice through:

"You're real messed up."

Without further commentary, she slipped into a role she was growing all too familiar with. The plasma saw began to slowly warm up, and as far as anesthetic was concerned... She opted to use a little less than was absolutely necessary. Perhaps her favorite part was the stem-cell grafting equipment. It was a little harder than a 3-D printer, but it had, when she first discovered it, inspired a faint inkling of hope that she might not always be a ghost in the machine.

"What was it this time?"
 
Paragon seated himself at a console with a groan. He rolled one of his shoulders forward, then brought a hand up to his neck, massaging one of the kinks. “Bounty hunter. John Bishop. Piece of work. The whole thing was a setup - I barely busted the arms deal when he teleported in. Ha’la’tha must have finally gotten wise.” He reclined into the chair. “Or someone else did. Bishop’s expensive, even for an intergalactic mob. Someone must of…”

He moved to start working on the computer, immediately growling as a thrush of pain shot up his right arm at the motion. “...he also poisoned me. Radioactive crystals, or some shit. Nanites stopped the flow, but the arm needs to go.” He began typing with one hand, his fingers doing aerobics on the keyboard. “I also lost 99% of my gear and blew two perfectly good shield matrices. I don't even know if I managed to destroy the weapons being sold at the arms deal.”

A pause. “So how was your day?”
 
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"Uh-huh." The voice sounded distracted. At once, she was monitoring the power directed to the plasma saw, the progress of the graft, and the strange antics of a pair of homeless men trying to crack open an ATM.

"Sounds like they had the drop on you. I wonder if there was some way for you to have a little friend, ever present and nearby, with--say--access to wifi, and a modicum of autonomous movement..." She trailed off.

"My day? I witnessed a cuckold scenario go horribly awry. Did a full diagnostics check on the ship for the tenth time. Repaired a shield. Pitted the Roomba-things against each other in the lamest robot battle ever. Other...stuff."

There was something odd about the way she said the last bit.
 
“And if I had brought this hypothetical ‘little friend’,” he grumbled, “whether she be in an android frame or a biosuit, she would be facing the same dangers I am. Greater danger, even. The worst they can do to me is kill me. Incorporeal creatures can suffer far worse fates.”

He rose, groaning. “‘Other stuff’. Were you watching Bruce Campbell paint the walls with zombie brains, perhaps?” He passed a small, two-person dining table, filled with emptied shaker cups which once held protein-amino smoothies.

“The cuckold scenario sounds at least halfway interesting. Who was cheating on whom?” He hunkered down in front of another holobench, this one outfitted with medicinal equipment. “The anesthetic, please.”
 
At the mention of danger, a soft sound came through the speakers, and as difficult as it was to believe that what was essentially a self-aware computer program had just scoffed at him, she managed it remarkably well. Clearly, she was not of the same mind as him when it came to mortal peril.

"I was actually looking into reanimating the dead." Her tone was so casual that she had to be sarcastic. Although, honestly, if he were to bother checking the biomedical waste containers, he might find several botched attempts at...something.

"No one was cheating on anybody. The husband wanted her to do stuff with another guy, and film it so that they could watch it together. Guess it mattered that she picked his secretary...the one he'd been doing on the side." There was a soft hiss as she dispensed the amount of anesthetic she had earlier measured. Sure, it wasn't quite enough--but perhaps he would stop taking his body for granted if he hurt a little more.

"Shall I kiss the booboo now? Offer the offending appendage."
 
“I thought cuckolds were unaware of their romantic imperilment,” he replied, twirling his fingers in the air until he could no longer feel them. “It's Latin, isn't it? ‘Cuculus’ - nominative declension. Crazy, insensible.” He said nothing in response to her apparent disregard for the dangers of accompanying him into the field. Evidently this was a conversation they had frequently.

“Necromancy,” Paragon gruffed, “not the most benign of the unnatural sciences. One might say it reflects poorly on your character.” He relaxed his arm as the anesthetic took effect, tapping at the skin beneath his elbow to test for sensation. “Remind me again why I've given you control of the entire ship?” He looked away. “Cut it.”
 
"It actually comes from old French and old English, and it's in reference to the cuckoo bird, which was known for laying its eggs in the nests of other birds," she said cheerfully, not having to even spread herself very far into the expanses of the internet for that one. Through a lense mounted high and discreetly in the ceiling--and through another at the level of the medical holodeck--she watched as the anesthetic started to kick in.

"You know I don't buy into necromancy. 'Unnatural sciences' aren't my bag." This she knew to be particularly funny, considering her present status.

As he bravely turned his gaze away, she silently slid the plasma saw from behind a spotlessly clean titanium panel.

"And I believe that you gave me your ship...due to poor judgement of character. Close your eyes and hold still."

With that, she made an exact and swift movement of the plasma saw. There was a severe flash of light, and over before a thought could register.
 
“Ow.”

His body jolted, but otherwise he stayed in place. Releasing a long breath, Paragon stood up and inspected the neatly cauterize stump that had been his right arm. “I suppose we’ll chalk this one up to ‘poor judgement of character’ as well. Please dispose of the infected limb. Absolute incineration - make sure the crystals are obliterated. Don't let it touch anything.” He paused. “Actually, keep a shard in a suspended cryostasis chamber. It might come in handy.”

He walked back into the main lounge, swiping a holopad off a table. “Speaking of ‘poor characters’, I should check up on our prisoner.” He navigated with his thumb, pulling up the security footage to the brig. Freja would be in one of three cells, locked in a specially-outfitted chamber plated in aluminum and carefully deprived of any other metal. A tesla field kept her from escaping.

“I'll want to begin interrogating her soon,” Paragon nodded, “though something tells me I'll look slightly less intimidating with one arm. How's my new hand cooking?” He walked over to whiteboard. Written overhead: ‘ME’, with a line dividing the other name, ‘ORF’. Battalions of tally marks were arrayed beneath the names, with ‘Orf’ leading by several dozen points.

“I'm giving you one point for showing me up on the ‘cuckoo’ remark.” He put a mark on her side. “You could have had two if you would've caught that ‘cuculus’, being nominative, can't possibly be defined as an adjectival like ‘crazy’.” He mused before the whiteboard. “...do I get points for aggressively correcting myself?”
 
As soon as he spoke, the plasma saw took a sliver from the removed hand. A moment later, it dropped into a tank underneath, never to be seen intact again. Orphic set the sample aside, immediately freezing it before placing it inside a sterile tube and storing it somewhere impossibly cold... Right next to all the other samples of him that she had taken in the very short time that they had known each other. The rest of it was shot straight to the incinerator.

"You've already got jokes on hand," she muttered dryly at the comment that involved the word 'handy.'

As he tooled through the holopad, she flicked through his viewing selection herself. Honestly, she had been curious about Freja all day, wondering what she was truly capable of. She knew better than to speak or let the prisoner know that she was there, but still...it had been tempting. It was tiring, talking to the same person, day in and out.

"Your phalanges are still forming. Should be another two hours before muscle, tendons, and skin are formed. If you're not interested in fingernails, we can pop it out in two hours and fifteen minutes."

The camera turned audibly toward the whiteboard. She loved and hated the thing--loved that she was almost always ahead, and hated how she could not alter the score herself.

"I don't see how that works in your favor if you were wrong in the first place. I believe you should consider yourself lucky that I'm not deducting a point."
 
“That’s not worth a point deduction,” he quipped, rooting around in a drawer for something, “one of us has to say something egregiously stupid to lose a tally. My mistranslation of Latin was, at the least, erudite.” He found what he was looking for - a black device vaguely similar to a box cutter. Pressing it against the wound at his side, Paragon flipped the switched and held his breath. There was a flash, a hissing of burning skin, and his cut was cleansed and sealed.

“Fingernails…” he mumbled, “...I’ll want them eventually. Can we add them later on?” The device returned, he next wandered to a sink overflowing with shaker cups. The dinnerware in the cupboard was completely untouched, as was every cooking utensil at his disposal.

“I’ll want you to dig up everything you can on ‘John Bishop’. Video footage. Known employers. Everything you can get a hold of.” He found a dishcloth and began mopping up the blood at his side. Only now did he realize that he’d left a trail of black fluid from the cockpit to the medbay and now to the lounge. “...and for the record, do you have the ability to use and operate a common mop?”
 
"It's like you don't even know me."

On a nearby monitor, she was already throwing up every article, video, and public record she could find on a John Bishop that was presently living. It was also apparent that she was shuffling through the data, excising the John Bishops who could not possibly be responsible for the actions that Paragon had described. She had also decided to look into anyone registered for or possibly capable of teleportation--either having acquired the technology to do so, or having been caught exhibiting the supernatural affinity for it. She made a point of shuffling through many panels, displaying just how swiftly she was coming up with and sorting the information.

"Fingernails'll grow, if you're in such a hurry."

At the mention of the bloody mess, she sent out the 'Roombas,' as she insisted on calling them. Both were small, round, metallic devices that glided along the floor. One looked a little battered, its casing a tad askew; the other had a noticeable scratch along its side. They scurried towards the mess, one of them having to correct its course repeatedly due to the fact that its alignment seemed to have suffered in some kind of impact.

"Psh. Mops."
 
“That’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen,” Paragon replied in his usual colorless tone, shaking his head at the unfortunate Roomba who was clearly doing his best in spite of his injuries. “Fix them. It’s the least you can do after making them fight to the death for your amusement.”

He began stripping off the remaining bits of his armor, throwing piles of ceramite and nanofoam into a recyc tube. The mask, of course, stayed on. It always stayed on. “I’m going to shower, prep another suit and get an hour of sleep. Let me know as soon as the hand is done. I’ll interrogate immediately after that.” He rolled his shoulder forward, waving his stump around in the air. It wasn’t interfering with his balance as much as he thought it would.

“Oh, one more thing,” he stopped at the doorway, “project EF3 - the singularity compression unit. Move it to priority one. If I run into Bishop again, I’ll need more in the way of a defense against relativistic energies than blink packs.”
 
Orphic said nothing for a moment as she tucked her search on John Bishop into her background to be mulled over. It didn't take much thought for her to clean up after Paragon--it was a wonder that he had ever gotten on without her. The ship itself certainly lacked the detail-oriented concern she had for cleanliness and order.

As he waved his stump, she took a short, surreptitious video that she planned to use out of context later. He heard her strangely metallic giggle as she did.

"Right. EF3 before all else. Enjoy your shower and nap, boss."

With that, she sank into her little ethereal shell, surrounded by all the knowledge in the world, only a split second's thought away. John Bishop and EF3 were all well and good--top priority--but there was nothing in the world that could distract her so much as to prevent her from blaring 'Carry On' by Kansas at him while he showered.
 
Freja woke up in what looked like a self-contained prison cell. Her bed was a cushioned bench coming out of the wall, no pillows. A toilet and a sink occupied the corner of the room with a separating wall to provide a modicum of modesty. A static field hummed quietly ahead of her, offering a blurry view into a dark, empty room.

Her head would pound as she woke, but she would find herself more or less unharmed. The wounds she'd received in her fight near Windcrest had been treated and bandaged. The brawl was likely the last thing she remembered - an ambush in the snow, the eyes of a demon glaring at her through the smoke...

A plate of food lay at the foot of her bed on a table with an empty glass; some sort of hard, chewy meat substance with assorted greens and a rind of bread. The glass, plate and utensils were all plastic. Everything in the room was either plastic or plated in aluminum. Her metal reserves were spent and there wasn't an ounce of steel in sight.
 
Freja was awake. Listening, not opening her eyes, trying to sense through the halo of pain that was making her head pound. Either those senses had all failed her after whatever had happened, she was dead, or – there was no one there. As she lay for a while longer, her fractured mind tried to remember how she’d got here after the fight which was a blurry memory itself. It couldn’t. The only thing it could summon in any detail was a pair of eyes, meeting hers, before everything vanished. They’d seemed to have burnt themselves into her vision, as when her icy eyes finally opened abruptly, two imaginary spots floated about her rather apparent prison cell. And not a very hospitable one, despite the food which was more offending her than anything.

Her immediate response after rising slowly to her feet was to burn. But there was nothing there. She stared at the closest wall, then made her way over with a few limping steps and pressed her hand against it. She didn’t really have to touch it to be able to tell what it was made of.

The feeling of suffocation was already unbearable. Joined by the slight leering sensation in her stomach that told her that wherever she was, it wasn’t stationary. Wherever it was, whatever it was, if she escaped, she planned to crush it; screw by screw, chip by chip.

Freja had never met the limit of her frustration. It was a feeling that was constantly with her, always waiting, ready to flare in a flamboyant show. Which was about to begin.

It started with the tearing off of all her bandages, then the attempted systematic dismantle of her corner of the room – which didn’t bring up much, even when shamelessly using her teeth -, as the last few nuts and bolts that she’d managed to unhinge from the bathroom came to settle, her eyes finally took to gazing out onto the dark room which was separated by what she’d put last on her list of things to meddle with. It's humming sounded almost inviting.

Well, since it looked like she had nothing to lose…
 
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