#Angrboda RP | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

qm-vox · 4 years

Text

The Dwelling Gods - Battles of Gatax-Ob

Previous Chapter - Contact

Risen Terra, 400 P.T (2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar)

Alexandra Orlstasz, Covenant Day (Present)

We’ll say this for the Admiralty: unlike most of Our clients, they bothered to do the research on what they’re asking Us to do. Direct post-cognitive readings of either corpse, without further context, are likely to just kill Us in agony and waste quite a bit of the Phoenix’s money in the process, so Admiral Alekto Molteira has thoughtfully procured other artifacts of the battles in and around Gatax-Ob, in the Ob system. The modifications made to the Demeter for this affair are likely more than a little illegal - the original version of this morgue certainly didn’t have a meditation room where We can hook Our mind up to recording devices - but given the situation, We’re willing to give it a pass.

Gods Within, another hive mind. And so soon after the first, which drove us to form our mighty Covenant to survive it. The war against the Olkazi Organism was only formally ended in 342 P.T., after all, we can’t be ready to fight another one of those godless things.

Focus Orlstasz says into Our mind. I am ready to maintain Our mind during the work. Are you prepared for the dive?

We let out a long breath and nod Our head. “I believe so,” I tell my God. “This is what I do, what We do. I hope you can yank Us out ahead of any direct contact with the mind, because otherwise...”

Is it just me, or is Orlstasz’s malicious chuckle almost nervous? Death in agony.

We slide the needle of the recording cable into the datajack at the base of Our skull, adjust Our ass in the comfy chair, and steeple Our fingers in a meditative posture over the first artifact of the battles that We’ve chosen to read. It’s a small thing, not much more than a scrap of cloth from a uniform. Its owner, We have been told, is still alive.

The power is mine, not that of my God. The children of the Phoenix were psionic before the blessing of the Gods Which Dwell, and the power, the glory, is one of the few parts of Our mind that I wake up each and every day knowing is mine. We close Our eyes and I focus on the scrap of cloth, tasting the thick layers of the living past on it, the sticky threads that connect it to the present. I follow it down, and then I am...

Ajax Raulzax, 14 Embers 399 P.T (15/7 2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Approximately Three Months Ago)

RPS Vorhees (Revenant-class corvette), en route to the Ob system

We slide Our hands into the jump controls; they clamp around Our wrists and crackle with power as they link with Our body’s energy. Raulzax’s whispers in Our mind dim and quiet as my God prepares to initiate the jump to the Ob system.

“Captain, incoming message from the Angrboda. Admiral Megaera Toirstax is ready to give their address,” Our comm officer tells us. The interruption is barely a ripple in Our concentration.

“Put the Admiral on-screen,” We reply.

Admiral Megaera Toirstax stands straight and tall, and speaks clearly for a pair that’s pushing a hundred and sixty. They were the captain of a cruiser, during the war against the Organism. Some part of Our mind (Me? Raulzax? It’s hard to tell while We’re concentrating) wonders if that will be Us, after this new war.

“It is not Our habit to mince words,” the Admiral says to the fleet. “We have no love for the Gataxian Pure States, no love for those who choose murder over peace and hate over friendship. We, the sailors and soldiers of the Astra Federation, are not here for them. We are here for us.”

They pause. Our bridge crew is silent, and why not? The Admiral is right. No one really wants to be saving Gataxians.

The Admiral continues in their clear voice, their eyes steady on the screen. “Our nation was founded on one principle: no one deserves to die alone in the dark. Some of us were once enemies. Others called out in their hours of need and were answered. All of us swore ourselves to the preservation of sapient life and the glory of a galaxy united in friendship and compassion. Those principles can, at times, feel so easy to follow, but today is not one of those times. Today is a test of our faith, our commitment to the ideals we hold dear. Our union will not be found wanting. We stand!”

We and Our bridge crew respond as one, alongside the thousands of other sailors in our fleet: “Until the stars shineth not!”

“Captain Ajax Raulzax, are your Revenants prepared?” the Admiral asks Us. We give a cursory glance to Our computer, but it’s just for the look of the thing; there’s not a Revenant captain of any species or age that isn’t itching to get stuck in all day, every day.

“We await the Federation’s pleasure,” We answer formally.

A gleam of mischief enters the Admiral’s eyes. “Consider the Federation pleased. The rest of the fleet will follow thirty seconds after your jump. Glory to the Gods Which Dwell, Captain.”

The video cuts out, and We grin out of the corner of Our mouth before We start issuing the final orders to prepare for the jump; charging our weapons, dialing up firing solutions from the ship’s prophet, and warming up the engines for immediate evasive maneuvers. This isn’t Our first go around performing a jump scare (excuse Us, “close-range emergence assault maneuver”), but it doesn’t do to take the process lightly. The jump will strip Vorhees of her shields, which means we all get to die if We fuck this up.

“Preparations complete, Captain. We await your order.”

We tighten Our fingers into fists and lean the jump controls back. They crackle with power, ready and waiting. “Open a channel to the others,” We instruct, and when it is done We give the order We’ve been waiting all day for:

“Initiate your jumps. Glory to the Gods Which Dwell!”

“Hail the Dwelling Gods!” come the answers, and then I am releasing the power, slamming the jump controls forward and sending the Vorhees hurtling into a violet gate...

[&]

Our mind goes trailing back into the present. We rub Our temples and sigh; strong wills like the Captain’s only give brief snippets of memory, at least while they’re still alive. It is one of the many strange and mysterious ways that souled creatures defend themselves from psionic intrusion. We could try again...

The Gataxian artifact may be of more direct relevance Orlstasz suggests. They must have witnessed the battle.

“Good call,” I say to my god. We reach for the artifact in question, a datapad with a splintered screen. It’s small in Our hands, as most Gataxian products are. We set it in front of Us, steeple Our fingers over it, and then I am...

Wolt-Ob ra Yox, 14 Embers 399 P.T (15/7 2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Approximately Three Months Ago)

Ob Solar Defense Station, Ob System

“Another mass driver offline!” I screech; my wings flap in a panic, filling the air with thick dust that swirls in the yellow emergency lights. The station vibrates with our answering shots, which sail into the void outside. The rounds swat one-two-three of the filthy xeno ships that come towards us, but it’s nothing like enough.

Their capital vessels have us outgunned. The crew and I are only alive because these misbegotten things intend to board.

“Any response from our kinfolk?” my commander demands, his own wings calm and steady. His pointed fingers work the controls of the guns with practiced ease.

I focus my attention on the comms. The distress signal is still running, but - “The closest fleet is months out,” I answer, my voices wilting. “We are forsaken! Damned! Doomed!”

Another silent round clips through a xeno ship in the vision of my right eyes; the debris shreds two of its neighbors.

“Keep working,” the commander snaps, a buzz cutting through his words to color them with rage. “The colonists on Roylan are relying on you. Have faith: someone will come.”

Air rushes through my carapace to fill my voice with an angry response when my wrath is interrupted by a beep from the sensors. I refocus, looking at them and at the space outside where the xenos ships are boarding our mining stations, orbiting the colony, and closing in on the station. Before my many eyes, violet gates open in the midst of the enemy formations, and ships pour from them, their weapons already firing lances of strobing energy and swarms of missiles. Hundreds of tiny corvettes appear in the space around the station, close enough to reach out and touch their chosen victims, and open fire on the encroaching fleet in a silent slaughter.

The comms flash at me. “We are being hailed,” I whisper.

“On screen,” the commander demands, and I make it so.

It’s a terran; of course it is. An older specimen, with graying hair and a crackling nimbus of profane power around its eyes. That same corrupt energy is what permits it to form the beautiful buzzes of the Gataxian language with its misshapen throat and lips.

“Greetings, gataxian station. I am Admiral Megaera Toirstax. The Astra Federation has heard your distress signal and is here to provide aid and succor. The Ninth and Eighteenth fleets are prepared to evacuate your colonists to a place of safety and deny your resources to the enemy.”

“You are unwelcome here,” the commander buzzes, rising into the air with furious wingbeats. “You defile this system with your presence! Begone!”

The terran on the screen shows its teeth to us. “You mistake my statement for an offer that you might refuse, commander. We will evacuate your colonists, and you will assist us in doing so, to their considerable good. There is no time to debate this. You can help save the lives of your families down below, or you can aid your enemy. Your choice.”

“You are not our allies, filth,” the commander answers.

Families. I have a mate, and larvae, on Roylan...

The commander is still talking: “Every gataxian that ever was or will be would sooner die than accept succor from one such as you. We will gladly -”

A shot rings out amidst the alarms and emergency lights. The commander’s head explodes into chunks of chitin and yellow blood. Distantly, I realize that my weapon is in my hand.

The terran on the screen folds its fingers under its strange, round chin. “To whom might I be speaking?”

I suck air in through my carapace. “Wolt-Ob ra Yox. Acting commander of this station. Your Astra Federation has sanctioned this action? Not simply you and your...terrans?” I ask.

The terran’s head goes up, then down. “Your people are in a danger you cannot comprehend, Commander Ob ra Yox. The galaxy is in danger few can comprehend. Let us help you, and we can face it together.”

I feel my very soul recoil, but I concentrate on the thought of my family and the young larvae I have not seen in months. They will be cocooning, and soon. “I can assist with the evacuation,” I agree. “My crew must be evacuated as well. I can run the comms alone.”

That head motion again. “Agreed. We’re sending a shuttle now, Commander Ob ra Yox. May your life be long and unsullied.”

A laugh forces its way out of my carapace. “And yours as well, Admiral.”

[&]

Orlstasz yanks Us out of the dive, and We double over out of Our chair to vomit in the small room’s trash can. Gataxians; every time We’ve dove into one of their living pasts, the sheer hate and fear that courses through them has been overwhelming. We retch, spitting up further acid and chunks of Our wasteland fry-up. It is infinitely less pleasant going back up.

Scourges Orlstasz mutters, their voice full of low-level irritation. At every stage of the Cycle there is always scourges, each thinking themselves original and poignant. They are beneath contempt.

We spit a thin line of bile and spit, then wipe Our mouth. “They’re still people,” I tell my god. “The Astra Federation won’t leave them to die alone. Not even if they try to make us.”

My god laughs at me in Our mind, and all I can do is roll Our eyes and use the intercom to request crackers and water, and to apologize for throwing up in the trash can. Our body shakes in Our seat as We try to focus on breathing and centering Ourselves after that dive.

The shipman who comes in notices, but does not comment aside from putting a comforting hand on Our shoulder for a moment before they must, regrettably, leave a new trash can and a bucket to replace the one they take from the room. The smell of vomit still lingers in the air of the meditation chamber, and I don’t dare try to waft it out with telekinesis. My control is far from that fine.

Are you prepared to dive into memories of battle? my god asks, their voice soft.

“If I don’t finish this today, I’m not sure I’ll have the courage to come back,” I admit. “The Phoenix - the Federation - needs to know the truth of what happened on the ground of Roylan. And...so do I.” The image of that drone, with its features so similar to a terran’s that I mistook them for one of our dead, floats through Our mind. “I have to know,” I repeat, in a soft whisper.

The Valhallan next, then Orlstasz suggests. They would have been near the line of battle.

“Good idea.” We take in a deep breath and let it out slowly; We sip Our water, take a few bites of cracker, and then reach for a pair of dog tags. On the back of them is the Phoenix-in-twain, the symbol of a Valhallan - a terran soldier who has chosen death in battle to be separated from their god. We set them in front of Us and steeple Our fingers above the tags. When I reach for the power, the name on them becomes my name.

Patrocles Ulkraylv, 15 Embers P.T (16/7 2863 Astra Federation Standard Calendar; Approximately Three Months Ago)

Descending on Roylan, Ob System

Terrans fear me (Us me Us me Us), because We (I) am what they dread becoming. The others strapping into their crash seats, the spirrans and ibraxians and helper-units (how helpful they look with their big guns, oh yes, so courteous and nice, ha ha!) don’t know why the terrans fear me (Us Us Us Us Us) but they have long since learned that whatever terrans fear is worth fearing in turn.

That’s fine, though. It gets to be over today. There’s death down there on that tiny little colony world, and Patrocles Ulkraylv is on its VIP list. At long fucking last!

Lieutenant MX-13 (”Moxie”) is taking point on this one; they’re one of the helper-bots, which helpfully (HA HA!) means they’re already used to delivering orders conventionally rather than telepathically. They’re addressing us as we get ready for the hot drop.

“The objective is straightforward,” the L.T. says, pointing at a map of the colony below. “The hivemind made landfall here and attacked the city of Olka-Ob, where it’s set up shop. It has processing facilities here, here, and here -” the facilities in question light up in a soft violet color, “- as well as cloning facilities here, and a structure we’ve tentatively defined as their neural link, here. We are to disable the enemy assets and hold their attention until the transport fleet can establish air superiority and begin the evacuation. We are, in short, to cause as much damage as possible in as wide an area as we can.”

A private, maybe twenty years old and shaking in their seat, speaks up: “What about the civilians, Lieutenant?”

Moxie’s quiet for a good long while, with only the sound of the transport hitting atmo to fill the hold. When they finally speak up it’s in that muted voice helper-bots use when they have to be unhelpful: “They’re already dead.”

When there’s no answer, the L.T. continues: “Valhallan Patrocles will be taking point. Check your barriers and don’t get in their way. They were a macro-telekinetic before they volunteered for this duty, and I should not have to tell you what that means.”

I (We) grin. “It means I’m going to be speaking a lot of ancient Earth-tongue today.”

Nervous laughter, from my (Our) fellows. We said ‘I” there. That’s not right at all.

Alarms start sounding, indicating that enemy systems have a lock on our transport, but it’s entirely too late for the hivemind to decide it doesn’t want to deal with us; the ship’s shields hold, and we land with a hard flex from the gear. We slap the restraints keeping Us in the seat and vault towards the lowering ramp.

There is no gun in my (Our) hands, but tattooed on each are words in an ancient tongue from Earth, whose pronunciations means ‘force’ and ‘skill’. The power gathers, crackling in Our mind and around Our arms and fingers, and I speak the first word the moment the ramp lowers and the entrenched enemy comes into view: “YEET!”

Sandbags and bodies go flying, alongside entrenched guns and tipped-over land vehicles. The shockwave shatters every window I can see and blows the snipers placed in them through the thin walls, but I am not done yet.

I speak the second word while bodies and metal and glass are still flying through the air - “KOBE!” - and they rip violently inward, crushing into a spherical mass of mangled corpses and wrecked technology. I throw my hands wide, and the sphere goes wide with them, slamming into buildings, hydrants, power lines, anything I can destroy, anything I can mangle with the power of my (Our Our Our Our Our) mind. Fires break out almost instantly, and We fan the flames as We stride forward, shredding power lines and exploding transformers to fuel the devastation.

We must survive until the cloning vats are destroyed Ukraylv reminds me. Only then may we be cut down in the flower of our might.

I release the power, letting the flames spread on their own and watching as the city around us loses electricity. Power systems are delicate; it doesn’t take much to wreck one. “I know,” I murmur to my god, before I turn Our (my) head to Moxie and my fellows on this suicide run. “Am I right in presuming you have not worked with my skill set on the front lines, Lieutenant?”

“Correct,” Moxie answers indifferently. I am not precisely in the chain of command right now, but the mission does have needs. I give the helper-bot a nod.

“Hive-mind protocols apply, of course. I’ll take point, and the others should watch their precogs and stay frosty. Once this gets going it’s going to get going fast and leave a lot of very alive enemies behind us, heading our way. My professional opinion is that the site of the cloning vats will be the most defensible, but the call is yours.”

“Defensible with you, or without you?” I’m not remotely ready for the pointed tone coming from my machine officer, and I take a brief step back. Then We (I) flash them a grin.

“Without.”

That seems to satisfy Moxie, and in moments we are moving in good order. It is not precisely stealthy; wreathed in my power, I spread chaos and desolation before me, and the streets of the city echo with the words whose names mean ‘force’ and ‘skill’. The hivemind, still reeling from the unexpected battle in space and struggling now to contain new information on more than three fronts, proves unable to mount a coherent defense against my onslaught.

“Why don’t we have one of you on every mission?” that brave little private (they’d introduced themselves as Cassandra Moinlix) asks me when we shelter for a moment to catch our breath.

“We’re expensive,” I (We We We) answer, between sips of water. “Macro-telekinetics are needed on capital ships, stations, and for entrenched defenses, where we can make the most of the decades of practice it takes to get to this point. I’m only here with you, now, because I’m going to die today.”

Cassandra looks away and doesn’t speak up again. Typical. Nobody likes hearing a terran say the ‘I’ word too many times. We (ha ha, ha ha ha ha) don’t do that much these days, do we?

Do we?

But when it’s time to move out, a scarce couple of minutes later, Cassandra does speak up again: “What falls might rise, Valhallan,” they say in a soft voice. “...It’s been an honor to see you work.”

The two field precogs and Moxie change our route up; the hivemind is rallying, and we need to hit the processing centers hard and keep moving. One of them is saying some dumb shit about planting explosives, and hearing it sends a streak of soul-deep irritation through my (Our) mind. We flick the power, sending plastic explosives arcing into the wild blue yonder in the general direction of the first target.

Moxie can’t make other facial expressions, but somehow I can still see how done they are with my (Our) shit. “If that doesn’t hit, I’m dragging the two of you out of this alive for the court martial.”

In return, I gesture with my right hand (”Kobe.”). A set of explosions answers the exercise of my power, even all that distance away, along with a faint trickle of blood from Our nose. The precogs stare while We wipe the blood away. “That should draw off the drones so we can advance more quickly. I wanted to point something out anyway.”

The L.T. gestures for me to fall in with them and we double-time it, moving from cover to cover. “Speak your mind, Valhallan.”

“You noticed the Mind seems to be using, well...technology?” We fumble at the thought percolating in Our mind. “Guns, ammo, body armor that the drones have to get in and out of. The Organism was all biotech, all the time, but if we didn’t know this was a hivemind we never would have guessed.”

Moxie’s quiet while we advance up a main thoroughfare, clean of drones but littered with the signs of battle and splashes of insectoid blood. The films might all depict hiveminds as taking living, struggling victims, but that’s film for you. Dead bodies don’t struggle and contain just as much biomass.

“That means they must have a supply depot of some kind,” Moxie says at last. How practical of them - they’re completely right of course, but trust a helper-bot to keep things on-task, eh? “Perhaps more than one, but the loss of any of them could take pressure off of the evacuation. We’ll need to -”

“Send me,” I (We We We We We) tell them. “Have the precogs find it for us and then send me. I’ll draw and destroy drones in the process, and you’ll have more time to get extracted.”

Moxie signals a halt and looks me in the eyes. “Tell me this isn’t just your excuse, Valhallan.” When I shake my head, Moxie nods and extends a metal hand, which I clasp.

“Tell them that Patrocles Ulkraylv died in the flower of their might,” We ask, in a soft voice.

“Everyone will know,” Moxie promises. “Until you rise again, Valhallan. We stand.”

“Until the stars shineth not,” We murmur.

[&]

“What threw me out?” We snarl, as I am jolted out of the Valhallan’s memories. There is a pool of blood on the table, soaking the dog tags, and more runs steadily from Our nose and the corners of Our eyes. There’s a hand on Our shoulder.

“We did,” the Admiral tells Us. “See the medic, then take an hour.”

“Our work -”

“Can wait,” Admiral Alekto Molteira interrupts in their firmest tone. “We’re all worried about the hivemind but no one is going to learn a thing if you die trying to follow the Valhallan’s memories down to their grim conclusion. Medic, now.”

We stare the Admiral down for a long moment, and then sigh. “As the Phoenix demands,” We mutter, and then we trudge off towards the infirmary.

[&]

Odessa Nulrix, Covenant Day (Present)

The Astral Chamber, Astra Federation Space (Charybdis System)

That We sit this table alone seems to frighten them more than your alien nature, Nulrix whispers in Our mind, and we both share a feeling that isn’t quite a laugh. The Gataxian Pure States are a representative democracy, and with Us at the vast Astral Table is nearly 80 ambassadors - and their High Slayer, Yrull-Gatax ra Vell, the leader of their people and the figurehead for their xenophobic crusade.

The air is filled with dust from gataxian wings as they argue and talk amongst themselves in those moments before the meeting formally comes to order.

Finally, the guards at the doors - an even mix of gataxians and Astra Federation citizens - lock the doors and the Master of the Chamber calls the meeting to order. Before anyone says anything formally, We hand a set of files to an aide to bring to the High Slayer.

“Before we set about the business of the day, the Astra Federation would like to give you the files on your refugees,” We say; the power buzzes in our throat and at our lips, letting us make the insectoid sounds necessary to speak Gataxian. “The evacuation efforts went well, and have slowed the hivemind’s advance by depriving it of its expected biomass. Regardless of the other results of this negotiation, the Astra Federation would like to request gataxian doctors and medical staff to help better see to the needs of your people during this crisis.”

Diplomats start to buzz in anger, but silence themselves when Yrull-Gatax ra Vell raises one sharply-fingered hand. We have seen the High Slayer’s type before; their anger is cold, internalized, and calculating. We can work with such hate.

“You speak as if the Astra Federation has no intention of returning our people to us,” the High Slayer says. I ‘nod’ - in gataxian culture the motion is more like a full-body bob, normally done with the aid of wings.

“Returning your people to an active warzone would be a disaster, to say nothing of the material benefit to the hivemind that would result,” We state. “They will be returned to your space, if they desire to do so, at the end of the crisis and no sooner. Surely it is not the intention of the Pure Peoples to put food in the mouths of their attacker?”

“Even so.” The High Slayer rises from her seat, dust wafting gently into the air while she hovers in place on brilliant, multicolored wings. “I will be blunt, xeno. You claim to know my people and our ways. What do you expect to gain from this meeting?”

Nulrix makes a purring sound in Our mind. They always did love moments like this.

“The Astra Federation is willing to extend membership status to the Gataxian Pure States, with all the rights and responsibilities,” We stress, “thereof. No strings, no conditions, other than those of membership itself.”

The carapaces of gataxians flex when they laugh.

“And you entertain this fantasy because...?” the High Slayer leaves the question hanging in their air. She’s smarter than her lackeys. Good.

“Your people write beautiful poetry,” We tell her, in a soft voice. “We’ve studied your art, your writing, extensively. Gataxian culture speaks so eloquently about the power and beauty of fear, of the nature of wrath, of lonesomeness and of family. Terrans make films about the history of your people, you know, and we write stories that include you. We pity your hate, and your lonesomeness. We want to help - though we know you hate us, we love you, unconditionally. When the rest of the Federation wanted to extinguish your culture after your attacks on the spirrans, we alone argued for containment rather than wholesale destruction.”

We pause. The air is heavy with wingbeats.

“We don’t tell you this because We think it will move your hearts,” We continue. “We tell you this because We need you to understand that what comes for you is what terrans hate and fear above all other things. If you will not take our hand in friendship, we will destroy you to get to the hivemind. We will conquer your planets, burn your space stations, slaughter your elders and raise your children as our own. Your beautiful art and poetry will be cast down, and all that you ever loved, and were, and could have been will be ground to dust, and when we are done the people who call themselves gataxians will never remember that they were anything but the dear friends and lovers of the Phoenix. It is not your fault that you stand between us and our enemy but between us you stand.”

“You would never,” the High Slayer says, digging her claws into the surface of the table; they peel up thin strips of metal. “Your soft terrans would never countenance such slaughter.”

“Try us,” We answer coolly. We lean in, meeting the multifaceted gaze of Yrull-Gatax ra Vell. “We are not asking for your servitude or your submission. We are offering you a seat at the table, when our allies would rather see you dead. But make no mistake, if you won’t let us love you, we will annihilate you. And we will not be sorry.”

“This is extortion, terran.” The wrath is curiously absent from the High Slayer’s voice. “You know we cannot war on two fronts.”

We shrug. “This is politics, the universal language. If you were us, and a gataxian state stood in your way, would you do differently? Take the seat at the table. Show the Galaxy the cunning and wisdom of your people.”

The High Slayer looks at the diplomats that surround her, whose wings beat in furious rhythm, but even in their anger they seem to understand that now is not the time to trifle with their leader. “You have our people hostage. We demand collateral, if this deal is to go through. Call them legates if you wish. They will be housed on my personal vessel, the Chorus of Eyes. And you will promise that we will retain ownership of our worlds when this conflict is over.”

We ‘nod’ again. “These terms are acceptable to the Astra Federation and the Phoenix. Do we have a deal, then?”

The infuriated roar of the flunkies almost drowns out the High Slayer saying “We do.”

#dwelling gods #fiction #soft scifi #violence #war #critique welcome

6 notes · View notes