Maxus Sywell's Story

The whistling wind is easy to hear from the inside of Whiskey Colony. The barren planet around Whiskey was not as hospitable as what was inside of it. A single watchtower outside of the Colony gates is all that there is to welcome incoming and exiting settlers and explorers. The other watchtowers were much taller, and could see for a very long distance. This base was not very new, but it was expanding rapidly. The only thing that was few was the colonists themselves. But they have recently made a shocking discovery.


There was other life out there.

It had started when they were picking up random signals in incomprehensible languages, at the time just dismissed as radio garble. But then their probes started picking up large objects, not just asteroids, but possible alien ships. The Arachnids were only the first aliens, and they weren't even capable of space travel yet. Today, several observatory ships were being sent towards the first and second recognized non-Federation beings.

Maxus Sywell is the first to know about this, and he has decided to build up the defenses, just in case, but also authorized the preparation of ambassadorial ships.


He hopes to God he isn't the one responsible for an interstellar war.

The ship in orbit above Klendath was on no terms your run-of-the-mill spacecraft, compared to the rest of the Multiverse. It was near primitive compared to them, for sure, but likely could still hold its own in space. The C.U. Integrity II was not a ship owned by the government, and was held only to a small technicality in allegience to the UCF. It was a ship designed to protect, for sure, but it wasn't just designed to take the brunt of blows for the general populace. It was designed to fight. But it had been a long time since it had to. The first Integrity was old, from a time right after when Oberon were not united and still fought each other. Endlessly. But then the age of the sky beyond came, and the Oberon slowly gathered together and made peace with each other. There were still some who fought, but not on a large scale. The Integrity II was manned with around two thousand Oberon, and armed with EMP and beam weaponry. Shields were still experimental and not used in combat, but there hadn't been any of that for a long time. The Colonial Union still insisted on being prepared, however, and in the light of finding a new race, one could only hope for peace with them.

The attempted observation of this race, who seemingly hadn't noticed the Oberon, had come with the idea of the next Discovery ship. The first Discovery was destroyed in space after its hull ruptured, but since afterwards the Discovery ships had been successful. The seventh ship to carry the name Discovery had been selected to go to observe the race currently just known as 'The Others.' Whether or not this would be successful was still to be seen.

On the Integrity II, they recieved a message log from Discovery VII. The ship had been contacted. On the bridge this announcement was met with the usual silence. The message was quickly played out on a screen to the side.

"This is Paul Clarke, Helmsman of the Discovery seven. Date is 05/8/2309. Time is 13:14. Over radio we have just recieved contact with the inhabitants of I-01's star system. 1-01.7 and I-01.8 are in sight at time of message. Message details we must cooperate with their orders and cease our advance. Decision by live crew to cooperate. Attempt to board or attack ship is possible. Remaining crew waking soon. Awaiting further messages or contact. End Log 03."

The log is documented and saved into a file, and then transmitted down to the surface.

Klendath.

The desert planet.

It is not an isolated place, despite the desolate appearance from space.

Indeed, if you looked at the surface, you wouldn't see much. The species of man that lived there, the Oberon, were very seperated by the vast stretches of desert in between their colonies.

One might wonder how they had advanced up to this level of technology, considering the fact that metal was hard to get on this world and that most materials were as well.
The answer could likely be found in the pure, forceful determination of the Oberon to exist and adapt.

There were also theories as to how the Oberon got on the planet in the first place, as most of the life forms on Klendath lived under the sand, and almost none lived above it, and the Oberon were very clearly not made for this place. How did they evolve here? Most of the Oberon didn't believe in a higher power, but surely, that had to be a possibility, right? Tracing back their history as far as they can, it appears that they had always had the basic equipment needed to survive a desert planet. So perhaps they hadn't originated here.

There has always been a part of the mind that wants to know where it all comes from. Perhaps the expeditions would bring some answers. Perhaps they wouldn't. The answers would be soon determined.

As for now, the desert planet sat alone, silent save for the radio transmissions from ships above.

The two escorts are significantly shaken by their surroundings, while Governor Sywell doesn't say anything, and simply stares around in astonishment.

Was that water? And what's that green stuff? one of the guards asks the other, whispering. He isn't answered, as the large robot walks forward and greets them. Sywell raises his hand in the same three-fingered greeting that the robot offered, and the two guards follow suit. The first guard chuckles as the robot makes the remark about criminals, and then glances down at the patch on his left shoulder that bears the words PENAL UNIT.

The three make to follow the robot, still marveling at their surroundings, simply stunned.

From the gang decks of the ship hangars, it would have appeared that the Oberon had simply appeared in the midst of a sprawling, prospering planet. Although it would only take one a few moments to notice some eccentricities of the sky to determine that it was a fabricated structure. The trees? Somehow, they were real.



From the gangways of the docks, a central structure in the middle of the port seemed to house an entrance and exit into the deeper bowels of the gargantuan vessel. It was here that Cooper was transported as he stepped into the pod on the VR deck, and suddenly found himself standing before two great hangar doors beginning to rattle open. Keying into the comms bead in his ear, Cooper then adjusted one sleeve of his flight jacket before embarking up the stairs to the docking stations.

The three Oberon were brought by their automaton escort to the facade of the port, what appeared to be a simulated structure that would, normally, be busy with civilian foot traffic and the bustling of civilization. At one of the large concourses where throngs of people would be gathering stood only a single man in a dark blue jacket and rugged military pants. “The AIs onboard these ships like to ‘build’ an environment for their inhabitants that errs on the … eccentric,” Cooper began, before his eyes went sideways to a vending machine.

The three Oberon are relatively confused at this point. It was obvious that this place wasn't entirely real, but it was still utterly alien to them. An escort stares in awe at the trees and water that he hasn't ever seen before, or at least not in such amounts. Sywell continues to stay fixated on the path in front of him, following HOMER.

Once they get to the structure where Cooper resides, Sywell prepares to make a remark, but is taken aback when he's offered 'pop'.
"Um, I suppose water is fine, thank you." The first escort also takes water, but the second, more adventurous, takes the soda.
As the second guard is drinking and subsequently freaking out as to the way it tastes, Sywell asks the question,

"How... How is all of this possible? I've never quite seen anything even close to this, but... Here it is. Is this all fake, or... No, it couldn't be. Not all of it."

He shakes his head, the two guards in the background trading drinks.

"I suppose it suffices to say I'm stunned."

Captain Cooper provided a dismissive shrug at their questions. HOMER seemed a bit more accommodating, his artificial skull nodding, as a concerned smiley face flashed across a blank slate of diodes and emitters that constructed his automaton facade. “A very good question, Governor! After thousands of years of space travel, mankind has reverse-engineered ancient technologies that were once thought to be fanciful study talk - or outright magic, even! - to bring the interstellar civilization of mankind to the very edges of the galaxy!”

With a sweeping gesture, the droid waved a hand out across the catwalk and to the small microcosm of a planet around them. “I think we can spare them the elementary school tour, Homer.” Cooper interjected, his finger fitting into the pull tab of his own can of soda and popping it open.

“Let’s just say the galaxy is a very, very big place gentlemen.This ship, while large, is so complex it really only needs a flesh and blood person like me on it very rarely and only in very, very specific circumstances.” Cooper explained. Snapping a finger at HOMER, who then stepped back while a holographic projection of the galaxy sprouted from his chassis.


The Milky Way, albeit labeled ‘HOME’ in an odd script that seemed to share commonalities with distant familiar languages, was seen spinning. The ancient, eternal dance giving it a calming swirl, while across the galaxy several motes of light smoldered. “I was born, centuries ago to you, on a planet in the Outer Garden called Hellestada, here, in a constellation called the Sereneca Sea.” He indicated with a soft flick of his finger, in a tiny script, numbers scrolled up as a line drew the two points together.

Sywell and his two guards quietly observe the holographic projection of the map, then says, "That's quite a lot of space. We've only mapped out our small solar system and some neighboring planets, such as two that are very close to us we believe are inhabited but have made no effort to contact. It still amazes me that despite our planet's scientific reasoning, you seem to be as human as me or any other Oberon, so I apologize if I don't quite get the gravity of this situation."

"Mankind has proliferated across the galaxy - which, from where I’m from, is called Home." Cooper began, turning his attention over to the automaton that stood beside him. "Things can be more … complicated than that but, there will be time for those explanations later.”



“Those Aschen, an ‘empire’ as they like to fashion themselves, were a terrorist organization that launched a war of aggression upon the galaxy. I’ll spare you the propaganda as you’ll become familiar with them in time, I’m part of the army pacifying their worlds.” Jack explained, giving a nod over to HOMER. With that, Jack and his autonomous companion seemed to usher the men towards the comms array, a squat building that was attached to one of the large quantum communications pillars that ran through the ship.

"That's useful knowledge indeed." Says Sywell.
He doesn't say anything for a while, thinking, then asks Cooper, "In an expression of our well-being, would you like to visit one of our cities? If this ship isn't capable of atmospheric entry I'm sure that we could arrange something, unless of course you have to stay on your ship. In any case, I would like to gift you an item, if nothing else than to remember us by once you have to continue upon your route. It may take some time to obtain this item but I will assuredly get it to you."

The reasoning for this may be slightly veiled, but in the essence of what Sywell isn't saying, though which could be gleaned by those aware of it, he's expressing that he doesn't want to have another enemy in the Exogarden, although the likelihood of a gift might not prove much beside his desire to be friendly. He is essentially making this decision out of well-veiled fear.

“I can do you one better, Governor - consider it a gift from the peoples of the Garden, actually: in the interest of all that unity and brotherhood you’ll be hearing from the Federate.” Cooper began, putting up a single gloved finger as he backpedaled towards a blank, empty wall that stretched before them. With the swipe of that finger, the wall suddenly exploded into swirling lights and twinkling motes, a rugged stag pulsed into life, another deluge of data flowing underneath it as he stepped up to a holographic terminal.

“Let’s see: terraformers, home appliances, agrotech … ” Cooper replied, hardly even waiting for an answer as he selected an entire stack of 40 foot freight boxes, nearly twenty in total, from one of the vessel’s thousands. “Oooh, got some food in that one. You guys ever try lamb?”

A video feed from somewhere deep in the MT’s freighting bay revealed an articulating arm fastening onto an intermodal container and slowly dragging it free. “Now, when the Aid Office asks about this just say you found this from cargo wash - plenty of shit goes overboard on these old freighters, right?”

There was a soft, pulsing icon that said [ALERT] he then pressed on, taking a step back from the holographic terminal to stand beside HOMER. “Aaaaah, very clever Captain! By Naval Code, unattended freight is legitimate salvage!”

“The autoship will detect some derelict freight and a Federate Mission will puddle-jump to investigate … a good way to skip all the pageantry and pomp the Federate’s criminally known for.” Cooper replied briefly, gesturing a hand to the display that showed a handful of container boxes floating aimlessly in space. After a few moments of staring at the inky blackness of space though, his visage changed slightly, calm smile turning to a frown.

Maxus Sywell smiles in gratitude, and lowers his head in respect for Cooper, before raising it again. "Your kindness will be remembered by my people. I'll get someone to collect it soon enough. As for the gift I have for you, which I suppose is less grand..."
He motions to one of the guards to step forward, and he does. The guard takes a large metal object, for that is all that it can be called with accuracy, from over his shoulder and holds it out to Sywell, who then takes it in his hand. It's pole-shaped, with a large wedge bolted onto one end, and the head of the object is shaped like a ball with a spear on the end. It has a grip-like texture on the barer end of the pole, along with some metal rings spaced about two feet apart to help with holding the thing. It's about five feet and three inches long, easily as tall as some people.
"This is what we call a Yo'pirr, a metal weapon crafted from the hulls of the ancient starships that brought us here. It may be rather... weighty, I suppose, but it is a very useful tool on our planet. I hope it serves you well." He holds it out to Cooper, smiling slightly.

Suddenly, as if by divine intervention, one of the nearby stars detonates. As a G-Type, it was expected that it would flare up over the next few billion years, slowly expanding to engulf the nearby planetary bodies on its way to burnout and its final extinguishment phase, but this was an out of the ordinary occasion. In almost an instant, the plasma surrounding the fusion reaction collapsed inward, taking just over a minute to arrive at the star's neutron-rich center before reflecting back out in a cacophony of turbulent waves scattered across the entire spectrum. An immense gravitational wave blasts outward, detectable only by the most advanced of civilizations, but one that would summon immense interest in this bizarre, seemingly chance event.

The automaton studied the polearm, HOMER’s blocky skull tilting just slightly. If the machine had a face, it would have been one twisted into surprise. “Now that is a weapon: I believe the exchange of gifts is integral for communication in this culture!”

Cooper looked at the weapon as well: one of the first things that the Oberon might have noticed about the Gardenites was their size, easily a head and a half taller. Though the Captain was “slim” even in comparison, that meant that the weapon offered was, to put it one way, the perfect size for Cooper. “Old made new, I like it,” He began, taking it in his hands and turning it over slightly this way and that.

Perhaps it was the strange uniform he wore, and the almost perfect stance he kept as he tested the weight of the weapon but only one thing was clear about the mysterious spaceman that had appeared out of the very bowels of the ship: him and his kind were made for war. The automaton, on the other hand, rose a three-pronged hand of its own up as a hologram burst to life of the Coalition sigil, called the suryasta, as the vessel’s quantum communications array reached thousands of lightyears to the planet of Bathe in the Charybdian Shores.

Klendath was by no means a great place to live, so the many residents of the otherwise barren planet made the best of what they had.

One of these methods of entertainment most often used by the people were competitions of skill, and one of the competitions played out on a small mesa just south of Oscar Colony, with several dozen competitors gathering with their tread bikes in preparation for a race. The reward wasn't much, but many people travelled to watch and participate, simply because of the fact that it was something to do.

The competitors all had their bikes in a line behind a wooden fence that would fall, in a fashion not dissimilar to dirt bike racing. The bikes were all heavily varied, with many seemingly made from scrap.

The crowd were gathered, with some sitting in chairs, although many more were simply sitting in the on the dirt. Since the sun was setting, they didn't need the usual tarp covers to protect them from the usual extreme heat, and there was a mixture of torches and electric lights to illuminate the track.
The track itself was a winding, bumpy, and uneven trail, bordered with an assortment of metal and wooden boxes, barrels, and markers.

The track was overseen by several Rangers, men and women in tan tunics with grey chevrons on the shoulders and chest. They were all carrying a weapon of some sort, with mostly short iron bars, although one or two had a pistol made of pipe.

One of the Rangers steps forward, and raises a hand with a small revolver in it. He counts down, and the racers all rev their engines, and on a single shot, start off down the track.

"Time has passed."

The President, Maxus Sywell, addresses his country. From a space station 'heavily' protected by the entirety of the Colonial Union's fleet, he addresses his people, as well as those who had been kind to them, ICON.
"As we now see, we are but insignificant compared to the reach and span of these many higher powers. We have made mistakes along the way, namely in contacting few, which for a time we sat in fear of. In these recent times we have started to expand our reach peacefully, in hopes of spreading our minute influence across this vast Multiverse. 'We have nothing but time,' we told ourselves."

"Well. Time has passed, and we have nothing to show for it. A few outposts on nearby planets, hesitant exploration of others. We are still insignificantly established to these who have had so much more time than us."
"I address, today, not only those who we have been friendly with, but also those who we have lived in fear of for these past two years. Today, we strike out against our fear, although perhaps futilely, we are ready to challenge the ultimate opposition."
"I am declaring a holy war. May the Wind be at our backs, guiding us forward to this fearsome opponent, throwing the sands into their terrible visage. We will fight to the last able-bodied citizen. We will leave a lasting impression on these barbarians who have stolen, unlawfully, members of our peaceful expedition, and have likely killed or imprisoned them, never to be recovered."
"Today, we will pay back a thousandfold what they have taken from us in blood. I hereby mobilize our standing navy in an assault against these Imperials."
"May the Wind guide us."
The vast assortment of ships launch, firing themselves into the outer reach of Aschen space.

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.