Abernathy's Story

The crops were dead.

A man stands at his front door, observing his property. It was a decently sized farm, maybe three or four acres of dry, arid soil. It wasn't the best for growing anything, but with the new settlement act, it was almost required to grow anything on your land to bring in a profit.
The wind comes in from the west, making the dead corn-like plants rustle dryly.
A large, rusted four-legged robot marches along the rows of lifeless maize, its two of it's three eyes dimly lit with a blueish glow, the third cracked and as dead as the corn. The boxy, square television in the house calls out to the farmer, with the beginning strains of the anthem of the Colonial Union, its somber tones accenting the late afternoon.

The man, known by a single name, Abernathy, walks into the stone house, and sits down on a torn leather chair in front of the telescreen, and listens to the message.

The wind continues to wisp through to the dry desert, tearing small pieces of the corn to dust.

The crowds gather eagerly in the open building known as Echo Colony’s town hall, more really a stage with a raised platform cut out of stone in the center of the city. The town mayor, a younger pale-skinned woman elected very recently, steps up to the stage, almost nervously, and begins speaking an introduction to the elected president of the Colonial Union.
“Sisters and Brothers, I am very proud to present to you our esteemed president, who holds the highest office in our amazing country, Brother Maxus Sywell!”
The president, loosely flanked by several guards in deep blue uniforms, steps up to the stage, and gives a couple waves and smiles to the crowd as the cheering begins.
“My dear fellow countrymen...”
Unseen to those on the stage or in the crowd, about six blocks away three men sit in the Khyven Bell Tower, on top of the local church. The men, all dressed in tan cloaks, cautiously and slowly adjust a large rifle, carefully setting up a scope. One of the men holds binoculars, standing, and the other two lie on the ground, one clutching the rifle, the other a range finder.
“He’s speaking right now. Shot unclear. Six guards. Take out one on far left on my count,” the one with the binoculars growls in K’Lath. “Roger.”
People in the crowd, dressed inconspicuously, begin slowly moving up to the stage, forcing their way past other attendees quietly, while the president continues to address the crowd.
“As I know, many of you here are fearful. What are we to do should the Imperial threat retaliate to our attack? Well, you need fear not. As of now, there have been no casualties-”
“VIN’DEPT!” a voice cries out from the crowd. People begin to murmur, some turning around to see who had spoken. Some of the Mobile Infantry begin to move into the crowd, trying to reach the man, while others grimly adjust their weapons, unseen by the rest.
The man continues to shout, this time in Oberan, the language of the higher caste of spacers and Colonial Union government.
“You lie! I have seen the reports! Already thirty ships have been destroyed, maybe more! You send off our people to die in some pointless space! I-”
Some of the Mobile Infantry manage to get to him, and begin to drag him out of the crowd, still shouting.
Sywell continues, slightly flustered. “I reassure you, we have no casualties. In fact, as of yet we have advanced past Imperial space unhindered. There have-”
There’s an audible crack, from the distance, and one of the guard’s head explodes, the man in question falling to his knees, dead.
For a second all is silent.
Then the guards begin to rush Maxus off of the stage, and people begin screaming. Collectively, the crowd tries to rush out, only to be impeded by Mobile Infantry, who level their guns at the crowd, other militiamen standing by in shock before trying to stop their comrades, only for two to be shot dead and the rest to begin fighting for their lives, few firing guns into the
As the guards try to get off the stage with Sywell, they are quickly penned in by several individuals who walk up holding a variety of firearms, all wearing a patch on their shoulder depicting the gaping mouth of a sand worm. The guards attempt to fight back, only to be either shot by the sniper crew some distance away or executed by the ground team, quickly soaking the stage in blood.
Throughout this, as the president is slowly forced back to the stage by the Fh’Khoreth soldiers and Khor Militiamen, he attempts to draw his pistol only for him to be rapidly attacked by the surrounding punches and kicks of the revolutionaries, dropping it to the ground where it is quickly kicked off the stage.
The crowd is now panicking, the majority of them kneeling on the ground with their arms behind their heads at the behest of the Khor Militiamen, while the Fh’Khoreth go through the crowd and select men and women dressed in Colonial Union attire, as well as those who seemingly are not afraid, the latter of which are brought to stand by the outside of the crowd, whereas the former are taken to the stage, where they are roughly bound and made to kneel in a line behind the president, who is now bound with his hands behind his back.
A lone man walks in from the outside of the hall, cloaked and wearing a moisture mask and goggles. He saunters up to the stage, through the captive crowd, stopping directly in front of it, where he is lifted by his arms onto it.
He stands, admiring the work of his comrades, walking around Maxus, who does his best to remain calm.
The man in the mask walks up to the stage, calmly waiting for the now-commandeered television cameras to point at him.
He unbuckles his mask, and slides his goggles up and over his head.
He grins, and takes the microphone before speaking in Common.
“Greetings, my brothers and sisters. My name is Vadin Yivan’rik. We are the proper successors to this planet, and today we declare our own jihad. These space-dweller L’Chek have perverted Harra, and enslaved us for the longest of times, forcing us to grow crops for them and moisture farm for meager profit while they float in their space stations, untouchable. Today marks a new day in our history. We shall finally hold these dogs accountable for the crimes they have committed against our people, and against Harra. Today, we shall hold them for their crimes, and exact proper judgement.”
He motions for a man next to him with a neck-length beard to come forward, and they start on the left side of the line of people, with the mayor of Echo, who looks incredibly fearful as three men come to stand over her with machetes.
The Khor militia begin to go through the crowd and excuse any families with children, allowing them to leave before the trial continues, the judges standing calmly by.
“Here stands Aerilyn Vulechev, guilty of crimes such as denial of protection to underprivileged citizens, unfair taxation, unlawful use of tax money for personal profit, and defaming the true Godwind. The punishment for these crimes is death. You may now speak your final words.”
The mayor begins to cry, choking out a whispered apology as the Fh’Khoreth soldiers standing around her unsheathe their machetes.
A couple seconds later, there is a head on the floor, and many of the other prisoners are crying or vomiting, some standing resolutely by, with their eyes staring straight ahead.
The executions continue down the line.
“... and defaming the true Godwind. The punishment for these crimes is death. You may now speak your final words.”
Panic and fear.
“... and defaming the true Godwind. The punishment for these crimes is death. You may now speak your final words.”
Disgust and fear, despair.
“... and defaming the true Godwind. The punishment for these crimes is death. You may now speak your final words.”
Acceptance eventually comes.
A small few of the twenty-plus prisoners are pardoned of their crimes, and allowed to leave, all of them in near shambles.
Finally, it comes to Maxus Sywell.
“Here stands Maxus Sywell, guilty of improper use of military resources, unfairness in the court of law, false imprisonment of oppositional political opponents, murder of more than 400 soldiers in unnecessary confrontation with alien forces, rigging of elections to place friends in power, violation of-”
The man speaking is halted by a raised hand of Vadin, who then speaks. “I understand that this man is our most hated enemy. We will not lengthen this any longer, as many of our Brothers and Sisters have waited for this for too long. I delay no longer.”
The Fh’Khoreth soldiers wrestle the president into a position with his head placed directly on the rectangular podium, and then hand Yivan’rik a machete.
He stands next to the president, and says softly, “Now is your time to say something. Do not dishonor yourself any further.”
The president breathes in and speaks.
“This will be the last time I will address my people. Stay resolute through this, and pray to the Winds that you may be guided through these coming times. Pray that those benevolent to us may come to us once again. Val’Din Ch’K-”
He’s cut off as the Fh’Khoreth beat him, and Yivan’rik stands, machete held out above him, and says, “He dares defame the Godwind with his L’Chek tongue! DIE, FILTH!”

The cameras cut off as it shows the former president being decapitated, possibly as a result of the orbiting info teams finally finding a way to cut the signal.
Back in the hall, Vadin Yivan’rik calmly addresses the crowd, is face and short beard stained with blood that he quietly wipes from himself. He sounds calmer, more collected.
“I am sorry for those loyal to Khor that were forced to witness this. Change does not come easy, and more than often it is a struggle, but it must be witnessed. We honor the purity that these men and women once had, but their souls are now with the Godwind, and they shall be judged by the highest of power. We simply helped them get there.”
“That is all. Val’Din Tiv Ch’K’Harra.”
May the true Godwind guide us.