The Hundred Lions: Civil War

Drake sat upon the cold bridge of the Hinterlight, watching the cold light of a forgotten star wash through the open shutters. The ship floated ominously above the desolate planet of Agememnon. It drifted, silently through the blackness of space, to all purposes dead to any prying eyes.

The bridge stations were quiet, their officers hunched over them, pouring over various readouts and displays. Drake's grey eyes flickered over the open view ports, marking the positions of the approaching strike craft. “Take us lower.” Drake spoke softly, his voice measured and calm, but behind his pleasant tone was a note of cold steel.

The navigation officer, a pale and scrawny man dressed in a faded and patched naval uniform, flicked a few switches and spoke softly into a headset crawling around his limp face. A dull thrum filled the ship as it shifted in space, edging slowly deeper into the asteroid field around Agememnon. A few dull whumps sounded across the bridge as a few of the lumps of rock thudded into the Hinterlights shields and were vaporized.

The bridge crew tensed, as the lone scanner array blipped ominously as the Navarre strike craft slid closer. Drake got up from his command throne and padded across the bare deck plates to the open view ports. He gazed out into the void, watching as the forms of the escorts loomed, filling the open ports. Their engines flared with ionizing gas as they swept around the asteroid field, firing all their sensor arrays into the jumble of tumbling rock in a vain attempt to detect the pirate craft that they had been pursuing for the past week.

Lines of light glowed along the escorts lateral lines as the sleek ships powered up to jump speed. A few seconds later a flash of light and a thunderclap signalled their departure. Drake let out the breath he had been holding. He waved his hand dismissively and the shutters closed with a faint whine. As the articulated strips of metal slid sinuously over the void-toughened glass, the stark light of the forgotten star faded to be replaced with the equally harsh light of the Hinterlight's bridge.

Drake settled pensively in his command throne, the black material of his armoured body suit scraping against the toughened plastic of the seat. He brushed a stray lock of raven hair back from his haughty, gaunt features. He turned to a youthful, sprightly man with glowing blond hair and a pair of wire rimmed spectacles perched on his protruding nose. “Mr Garrett, give me a heading to Zakalwe.” The man's eyes widened at the prospect of this but he thought better than to question his captain's decision.

Once again the Hinterlight hummed into life as her systems that had laid dormant to avoid detection powered back up. The deck vibrated noisily as the engines boosted the small craft forward, bringing them clear of the asteroid field.

As the ship cut towards jump speed, Drake mused over the ramifications of his decision. He hadn't gone within light-years of Zakalwe in many a year. The news that the many worlds of the Hundred Lions had called a council unnerved him slightly. He knew about the power struggle that went on beneath the surface of the Confederacies bureaucracy. Despite the apparent democracy of the hundred worlds that composed the confederacy, Drake knew that the three most powerful worlds had used their influence and military might to garner respect and control over many others, giving them the ability to influence the outcome of an election of a new leader.

Drake was party to a Navarre plot to reduce the grip the Vervun had on the trade and finances of the Confederacy. Issued with a letter of marque and the promise of full reparations for his crimes should he succeed he had been tasked to disrupt major Vervun trade routes, preventing them from delivering promised supplies to their allies. This had caused eruptions within the Vervun and their allies. Many of the smaller worlds, feeling cheated by their allies rescinded their support for their former allies and reduced their grip on the senate.

Drake had at first believed this just to be a mindless power struggle between the two factions, a clandestine war based on profit. But now the news that an election was coming, the acts of piracy he had been committing began to take a more sinister aspect. As his ship lunged towards one of the Confederacy's core worlds, Drake mused over the storm that was about to break.

The wide vaulted atrium echoed with the myriad of footsteps created by the unceasing movement of dignitaries and diplomats through out the massive council building. N'dak Nal Tar shouldered his way through a group of Tireisan aides stood gossiping near the large fountain that immortalized a trio of rearing horses in cold marble, jets of glittering water darting from their mouths.

N'dak pushed past the group of lofty Tiresians, his suit wheezing as the articulated joints moved. As he moved across the marble floor the communicator built into the rodent like helmet bleeped softly. Raising his stubby arm to his ear, he lightly depressed a stud built into the side of his helmet. His voice was wheezy and soft. “Nal Tar here.” He cocked his head to one side as he listened. Inside the cool gloom of his helmet, his expression went from passive to pure fury. “I'll be right there Sieur Thaval.” He replied to the com, his voice limited to the inside of the helmet.

After releasing the stud, he turned and walked purposely from the atrium, the boots of his void-suit cracking off the polished marble floor. N'dak headed through a columned archway and out into a brightly lit ornamental garden, filled with the low buzz of insects and the cloying scent of flowers. The diminutive Vervun strode past the rows of rectangular beds, edged with beautiful crystals. He was muttering darkly to himself inside his helmet, and typing furiously on a data-slate built into his wrist.

He thundered into the cool shade of another colonnade and into a small office building. On the top floor was a spacious office, spartan decorated with view screens and a few framed pictures of various Vervun officials, posing nobly carrying various symbols of enterprise. Sat behind the large desk was the Vervun ambassador to the Confederacy, Sieur Thaval.

“Thaval!” N'dak bellowed, his normally wheezing voice loud and harsh. “I want to know how you have managed to misplace another trade convoy to the mergent cluster.” As he said misplaced he moved his stubby fingers in inverted commas. The ambassador sat motionlessly, his helmeted face betraying little emotion. After N'dak had finished roaring, Thaval spoke. “We believe it to be the work of pirates. Despite the Navy's best efforts we have been unable to protect your shipments. If you have suggestions as to how we could do this, I'm open to ideas. His voice was calm and measured, as if N'dak's tirade had no effect on him. At this N'dak spoke again, his tone easily expressing the battle he was fighting to repress his anger.

“Where is the 'Justice' stationed at this moment?” He asked, his suit unable to express the wicked smile that had taken root on his face. The ambassador met his gaze and understood his intent imminently. “I think that can be arranged.” He replied.

Pheros wandered across the spartan deck plating of Varos Listening Station III, his blue skin glowing iridescently in the pale light. He brushed his flowing mane of hair back from his face and adjusted the collar of his Navy uniform. He passed through the smooth facets of the iris hatch into the viewing bay. The large window showed the vast expanse of traffic about the upper surface of Lapua V. The observation station had been established by the Confederacy's Navy to regulate the void-traffic around the planet. The five man team of Tiresians lived on the small silver orb of the station for months at a time. Pheros was coming to the end of his tour and was looking forward to a month of shore leave on the world below, with its brothels and bars.

His wide, saucer eyes locked onto a dart shaped shuttle as it tracked through the void towards the station, its smooth flanks devoid of insignia. Pheros turned and headed towards the command centre, a puzzled expression cemented to his normally saturnine features. The iris hatch wooshed softly as he entered the command deck. The officer on deck was a Navarre called Martel. A steely bastard if ever there was one. Pheros spoke softly, his lilting Tiresian accent sounding like the sea lapping on the shore. "Captain Martel, we appear to have an unidentified shuttle approaching." Martel turned, his lips mouthing a derisive insult when a huge impact rocked the station.

Martel was thrown sideways, his head colliding with a terminal. Over the ringing crash of the impact, Pheros heard the brittle snap of his neck. Pheros' almost unnatural Tiresian balance kept him upright, as the hatch seals clunked shut, preserving the ships fragile atmosphere. Pheros' usually agile mind was swamped by questions. Who would dare to ram a Confederacy Station? Was the one that leaped to the forefront of his conscience.

He turned swiftly to the interior monitor, his military training over-riding his confusion. On the flickering display he saw a team of shapes, blurry and indistinct. Between them, the shapes carried a large chest, sealed and stamped with a myriad of hazard stickers in an equal myriad of languages. Pheros knew a nuclear device when he saw one, and decided to act. The uniform covering his body was built to be vacuum proof. He snatched a respirator and an oxygen tank from the wall, along with a boxy riot gun. He slipped the cylindrical respirator between his lips and strapped the oxygen tank between his shoulder blades. The riot gun made a satisfying noise when he pumped it, loading a large calibre shell into the breach.

Pheros walked up to the iris hatch, his cobalt coloured fingers a blur as he over-rode the lock. Flattening his lanky shape against the wall, his breath wheezing through the respirator, he slunk down the corridor, the riot gun clutched tightly in his tapered fingers.

He rounded a corner, a found himself face to face with one of his attackers. He was tall and thin, like Pheros. The mirrored visor of the helmet reflecting the glare of the lights. He turned and fired a snub nosed rifle. The weapon cracked and the bullet was sent ricocheting down the corridor towards Pheros.

The bullet made a soft pinging noise as it collided with the floor, before ricocheting up to impact in the meat of Pheros' arm. Pheros howled and returned fire, the riot gun booming in the confined space. The crimson figure who had fired at him was blown backwards, limbs flopping comically like a puppet with its strings cut.

Pheros pumped the riot gun one handed, his left arm hanging limply at his side. The weapon cracked metallicly as the shell was ejected, a faint plume of smoke lingering in the empty casing. He continued down the corridor. The noise of the shot had attracted the rest of the group. Pheros advanced further down the corridor, the riot gun hanging from its shoulder strap. A pair of armoured figures appeared, raising weapons that looked like primitive spear guns. Pheros dropped the riot gun and yanked his serrated fighting knife from his belt. He charged down the corridor, knife raised to plunge into the joint where helmet met neck. The lead trooper fired his spear gun, the weapon coughed and the spear was sent sailing down the passage, its barbed tip aimed straight at Pheros.

Pheros dodged sideways and the spear bounced harmlessly of the wall. He collided with the man, and brutally slammed the serrated tip of the knife downwards, into his neck. The man let out a gurgle and collapsed, hands clutching at the knife handle buried in his throat. As the man's life left him Pheros struggled to pull the weapon free. The knife finally came loose, bits of torn flesh still clinging to the serrated teeth. Just as Pheros raised the blade a spear flashed out of the air and punched into his upper chest. The barbed spear point, propelled by compressed gas slashed through tissue and passed neatly between the ribs. It pierced the Tiresian's heart. Pheros was dead before his lanky form collided with the deck plates.

The attacker reloaded his spear gun and returned to join his brethren as they grouped around the crate. They removed their helmets and joined hands as the bomb detonated. A few seconds later the explosion reached the nuclear reactor at the heart of the listening station, causing that to overload and detonate, adding its force to the already mighty explosion.

For a brief second, a new sun blossomed above Lapua V. The nuclear firestorm reduced everything in a five hundred mile radius to ash. Over a thousand ships were swiped from the sky, their dessicated carcasses falling to the planets surface like carrion birds shot from the air. The subsequent fallout from the devices detonation reduced a third of Lapua V's surface to uninhabitable desert, crippling the verdant planet’s economy for centuries to come. This action sent the Confederacy into uproar. The fact that someone has managed to acquire a planet killing device was a worrying development in a situation that was rapidly escalating.