Bonds of Blood and Fire: fiction from the Empyrean Age
A tale of the Empyrean Age
Note: Throughout this piece a news vid is mentioned. You can see it here for yourself: http://video.mmosite.com/display.php?vid=7626&gid=8
"Rats. Rats Rats."
The voice over the command link was calm, deep and precise - rather at odds with what Logan Galactor knew about the man whose voice it was. But then, that was one of the things that had made the last few days interesting.
"Get out of there, J! You can’t tank them in that thing," Dras Leona. The big, bald scary Minmatar pilot was as passionate as his friend was cold. Also in direct contrast to his appearance. These Roma types were very much the ‘You can’t judge a book by its cover’ sorts.
"I’m re-docking," Logan added to the conversation. "I’ll scramble the Drake and bring her back into play to deal with the rats."
"Very well." The deep voice again. "Drones engaging. I’ll let the shields take this for a little bit longer before pulling them. Dras, stay cagey and cloak if you have to."
"Will do."
Things went quiet for a moment other than the occasional thunder of heavy thermic missiles smashing into shields. The vibration cascaded through the emitters to shake the hull of the target ship and sometimes resonated through the audio transmitters so that Logan could hear them over the combat channel.
"Pulling drones. Ready for warp. Hmmph. I don’t think they got a thing."
"They did actually," Dras replied. "One of the cruisers."
"Well, that’s good then. Drone wing recovered. Warping now."
Logan’s Drake had just cleared the station launch point, the mag accelerators giving her a bit of a boost into space to clear the immediate zone around the Gurista Test Facility. Logan extended his consciousness out through the neural links, turning the slab-like grey battlecruiser tightly as his sensors picked up the warp-in arrival of Jarvis Hellstrom’s Thorax class cruiser Oriflamme.
"How are we doing so far, Logan?" the Gallente pilot’s voice remained deep and flat. He might have been discussing which shade of grey to paint a wall.
"Really well, actually. I’m surprised at the pirates showing up on top of the convoy wrecks like that but it’s nothing we can’t handle and the payout will still be well worth it. Your shields are pretty much gone, you should dock."
"Can’t see the need," there was a short pause, "There are no reds or neutrals on the Local Channel. I’ll fly in behind you, let you take their fire and zoom in close. I should be able to get under their guns on microwarp before they can get a solid lock. Still, this is your part of space, if there’s something I’m missing, just say the word and I’ll dock up."
Logan thought about it a moment. There was every chance the Gallente capsuleer was right about the situation. He took a moment to check the local channel himself. Hellstrom was calm, and smart, but Logan knew full well that there was a blazing passion under that exterior and he wanted to be sure it wasn’t causing a fault in judgment. Stupid risk taking. No, it looked like Jarvis’ estimation was sensible. Local was clear and he was right about the attention the rats would give his Drake. Nodding to himself he thought, All right, at least he learns fast. "I think you’ve got the right of it. Very well, follow me in but be careful."
"Will do."
Logan sent commands through his links and felt the ship respond as his crewmen leapt to their tasks around the big battlecruiser. These signals meant his missiles were armed and ready, the crews standing by their tubes. Those over there were the engine readiness indicators. Floating inside a metal womb full of amniotic fluid, he didn’t so much see these things as feel them. The missile readiness indicators were a bit like flexing the fingers of his right hand. Not exactly like that, of course, but somewhat like it. It wasn’t easy to explain to someone not a pilot how your ship became an extension of yourself while in capsule.
To starboard and behind him, Hellstrom’s slender Thorax pirouetted on her tail and came into line. Logan could even see the stutter of her forward thruster units as the other pilot intentionally stalled the more nimble ship to allow Logan’s Drake to take the lead. Logan took her into warp, heading for the asteroid belt where Dras Leona was keeping the pirates busy. For the few minutes he had while crossing space, he let his mind drift back a few days…
Grogg, he had thought, why did you have to give me this job?
He checked his reflection in the small mirror. He had regular features. High and tight dark hair and the fairly youthful look of someone not haunted by a lot of cares. Well, not until the last few days anyway.
Logan Galactor had to bend to use the mirror. He was almost too tall for the mirror’s fold-out position in the Drake’s tiny command cabin. Almost too tall, point in fact, for the Drake. He tightened his collar and straightened his traditional Caldari tunic before ducking out the low door and into the corridor. Drakes, like most battlecruisers, were little more than flying gun platforms and the Cadari ship was one of the most extreme examples of that design philosophy. Corridors were narrow, navigation spaces tight or non-existent. Cabling and piping lined the walls and ran in trays over the heads of the crewmen. The overall look was somewhat unfinished, but still efficient and deadly.
Moving through the passages, Logan took careful stock of the crew. One woman had an access panel open, the wiring harness and atmo-cycler out on the decking as she went over it with a circuit tracer. It all looked normal enough but there was a set to her jaw normally absent and as he watched a tiny wet splash landed on the cycler casing to join others there. Almost invisible salty tears drew lines down her cheeks, pooling beneath the point of her chin before falling as though from a leaking tap. Logan didn’t know her well but still spared her a subdued touch on the shoulder and a bit of a nod at the nightmare haunted eyes she looked up at him with. He knew how she felt. In him it manifested as barely controlled fury - boiling anger beneath iron control.
Taking a gravplat down to the docking office he noted the station atmosphere was also tense. Some were angry. A few seemed cheerful or opportunistic. He walked into the office to find it playing on the wallscreen.
"Gallente officials have made a public statement that Admiral Noir acted alone, entirely without sanction of the Federation…" The images were playing. Ships fleeing Ishukone HQ in a terrified scurry. The Nyx supercarrier diving toward the structure while traffic controllers desperately tried to contact the rogue admiral. Noir’s ship smashing into the station, the prow ripping up hullmetal as though it were a plough breaking land for crops. Digging deep. Exploding in bright flame. Sowing death for hundreds of thousands. Logans mouth went dry. His teeth creaked as he ground them together.
A laugh. "This is gonna be great!"
"Aldus - my God man, shut the hell up!" The hard young woman behind the desk wore a chopped down Caldari jacket with the Guristas flash on the breast. The unshed tears in her eyes were at odds with her exposed tattooed midriff and half shaven head. She stood up, barely coming to the middle of the chest of the huge leather clad man on the other side of the counter.
"Frak, no. It’s true. You can see it, writin’s on the wall. Caldari and Gallente blasting each other to space dust. Concord on the ropes or hidin’. It’s gonna be Gurista paradise!"
"Aldus - those are Caldari. Our people!"
"Pfah. I’m Brutor honey. I just work for the Guristas. You Caldari have corn cobs up yer butts and the Gallete are nothing but pooftas. Let ‘em fight it out, and we pick up the pieces. We’ll all be rich!"
*Crack*
Aldus just stood there, his left cheek reddening in the shape of the Gurista girl’s hand. Her tears had started to fall but the set of her jaw was adamantine. The Brutor’s hand went for the huge slugthrower at his hip but before it could clear the holster he froze.
The cold muzzle of Logan’s gauss pistol pressed gently into the coffee toned flesh just able the big Minmatari’s cervical vertebrae. "If you don’t leave this room peacefully, right now," the Caldari officer said quietly, "you’ll be needing to re-up your clone contract. That or you’ll be learning to eat through a straw for the rest of your days."
The gun dropped back into the holster. "Awright. Awright. I’m leavin’. Don’t make it no less true though."
"Don’t let the hatch hit you in the ass on your way out," the counter girl chimed in. "Thanks for that capsuleer Galactor."
"Don’t mention it. The man’s clearly a pig."
"Ain’t dat the truth."
"Need you to look something up for me. Someone, more like. New arrival. Name’s Hellstrom."
She nodded and got to work. On the wall screen they were now running a vid of the acting head of Ishukone. Garushi being missing still, and maybe dead.
"Here he is. It’s a ways across the station, sir. Shuttle and frig bay area. Number 16."
"Thanks. I’ll check out a runabout, then."
She handed across a slate and he thumbprinted it before heading to the runner hangar.
Y-4 was a Gurista Testing Facility and a big one. It was also one of the main centers for The Flying Tigers, Logan’s corporation. The Tigers, like many corps, have members from all the races, saving the reclusive Jovians. Operating this close to Caldari space there were a lot of Caldari, but they were still only a percentage of the members. The Tigers weren’t a Caldari corp. The Dread Guristas, however, were mostly ex-Caldari and contained a lot of former Caldari Navy. Fury was everywhere. Noir’s entirely unprovoked suicide ram of Ishukone HQ had left everyone feeling hollow. Angry. Even empty. It had invoked a lot of emotions in Caldari space but it left no one unmarked. It was one of those moments in history. A hundred years of relative peace was ending. The centre could not hold. And what rough beast, it’s hour come at last, would now slouch its way to Jerusalem? War was coming. After a hundred years, it was coming. It was in the air, the food, the water, and it had been started by Alexander Noir.
Admiral Noir. War hero. Nyx pilot. Mass murderer. Cowardly suicide. Gallente.
And now he had to go and meet another Gallente. Meet him. Logan wanted to wring his neck. Shoot him dead. Something slower.
No. No. He took a deep breath. The man was Gallente, that yes. But he was a Tiger and that came first. Had to come first. Logan Galactor locked down his hatred, but it didn’t go away. It simmered, just under the surface of his skin like boiling mud.
Shuttle and Frigate zone. #16. Logan brought the runabout to a stop and stared up in a bit of surprise.
Y-4 was far from any ‘civilized’ space, and it didn’t have a clone bay. The man had flown here in a Velator, the cheapest and most primitive of Gallente frigates. Logan nodded. Another Gallente suicide. Probably a deathclone down to 6NJ and then a short flight over here. Typical. Sad.
"Not much to look at, little Firepip. Got to give her credit for getting the job done though," the voice was deep, almost a basso profundo. Logan spun, expecting to see a man that dwarfed the big Brutor he’d just faced down. But his eyes went down, and down.
The man was short. Probably around five foot eight. He had a slender build, not wasted but tight. Like a ballet dancer or an acrobat. He wore a Caldari style uniform jacket but the usual grey had been changed to a very dark green, so dark it was nearly black. Thin gold braid trimmed it and a bright new Flying Tigers flash gleamed from the right shoulder. The uniform was not Caldari, although the cut was. The color was understated for typical Gallente. The short pilot ran his hand through his damp hair, slicking it back. It was clean but gleamed with the faint residue of capsule fluid.
"Not like it’s hard to manage a single jump in a new rookie ship," the taller pilot observed.
"No, I suppose not." Hellstrom’s deep voice echoed in the bay, bouncing off the curves of the Velator’s hull. "But taking it through forty odd jumps of no-sec and braving a quartet of gate camps in it probably qualifies me as being certifiably insane."
"You. Did. WHAT?"
"The insane," the pilot said with the hint of a smile touching one corner of his mouth. "Sometimes one does. This time I was lucky."
"And skill would have nothing to do with it?"
"Perhaps a little. Velators are quick but if I’d hit a bubble I’d have been dead. You are?"
"Oh, sorry. Galactor. Logan Galactor. Flying Tigers." Logan didn’t offer his hand.
"Jarvis Hellstrom. Formerly Roma Invicta Fleet support commander. Now also Flying Tigers." The small man offered his hand, but Logan ignored it. Hellstrom left it there for a long moment, staring the taller pilot down. The eyes were large, grey green and cool. "I did wash it when I showered you know."
"You’re Gallente."
"How nice of you to notice." He dropped his hand. "And you’re Caldari. Which means my people have killed your people and your people have killed mine. I’ve killed Caldari. Scads of them. And lost crew to them, people I care about. That’s the reality of being a pilot in these times. Logan, why are you here?"
"Orders from the CEO. Meet you, show you around. Welcome you to - "
"The Flying Tigers?" Hellstrom cut him off. "I can’t say as I’m feeling terribly welcome at the moment. But then, this is primarily a Caldari station. And I’m Gallete and right now, that’s not good." He turned away and started walking back to the service areas of the bay.
"Where are you going?"
"Away, obviously. We have to fly together. I have no desire to make you uncomfortable Pilot Galactor. I’ll see you in space."
"Now hang on!" Logan hurried to catch up. "I’ve got a job to do!"
"Yes, you did. And your attempt to ‘welcome’ me was little more than an insult. Or did you think I wouldn’t notice? Do you see me holding the fact that you’re Caldari against you? Do you have ANY idea how many Caldari cruisers and battleships I’ve blown to dust? How many of your people I’ve killed? How many of your people have killed people of mine? That’s war, damnit! It’s not personal. It can’t be personal. You know what happens when it becomes personal? Admiral Alex-the bloody handed murderer- Noir!"
Logan gasped at the name.
"What? You think I didn’t notice? My God man! One of my people is a mass murderer. A killer of tens - no hundreds of thousands of people! How does that make me feel? Let me be crystal frakking clear Pilot Logan Galactor. I feel dirty. I feel filthy! I feel like I’ll never be clean again. I feel like everything I believe in, everything I’ve ever fought for, hell everything I’ve been KILLED for a couple of times has been made mockery of in the worst way by a madman! How the hell can I feel, Logan? I feel shame. I feel like I wish more than anything else that I had been on that ship to kill that madman before he did what he did. But I wasn’t. I was elsewhere and it happened and I couldn’t do anything to stop it!" The last words were roared out, the deep voice thundering in the enclosed space. "Logan Galactor let me be clear here," he went on, his voice now low and dangerous, "If I could burn every clone contract I have and then die a horrible painful death I would do all that and much more if it would change what that monster did. But I can’t. And I have to live with that. I’ll always have to live with Noir’s actions."
He took a long, deep breath. "Maybe that isn’t enough for you. I don’t know. Why the hell should it be? It’s not enough to make me feel any better."
The two men stood looking at each other for a long moment. "I’m sorry, Hellstrom. I’m sorry." The Caldari pilot looked down at the deck. "My cousin was on that station. I still don’t know if he’s alive or dead."
Hellstrom nodded miserably. "I understand completely. My uncle was there too. Part of the Federation Cultural ministerial exchange. An Assistant Deputy Minister." He took a long breath. "I KNOW he’s dead. The entire Gallente delegation was killed, right under that Nyx’ impact point. I don’t know if he’s got a valid clone contract or not."
Without even thinking Logan touched the other pilot’s shoulder, a move reminiscent of that he’d used on the tech on his own battlecruiser. Hellstrom stood stock still for a moment before pulling in close to the Caldari for a quick thump on the back and then stepping back before things got uncomfortable.
"Thank you, Logan."
"I’m sorry."
"No need to be," he said shaking his head. "We aren’t machines and this isn’t easy. All we can do is our best. But let’s try and be that, shall we? Let’s at least try and be what both our races should be. Adults with brains caught together in a terrible tragedy."
"Dropping out of warp."
Logan blinked and forced himself out of his reverie. He hadn’t even started thinking about things in the here and now but subconsciously he’d started to lock the Gurista battleships that had appeared to defend their fallen convoy. He listened for the tone-lock that meant they’d acquired his own ship and seconds later the Drake rocked to the impacts of hybrid weapons trying to break down the battlecruiser’s shields.
"I’m locked," he broadcast over the combat channel. "Returning fire."
"Val, where are you at right now?" Hellstrom asked after his other former Roma teammate.
"Still near the station right now, is it safe to warp in? I’m in my Iteron."
"Perfect. Warp in and keep cleaning out those wrecks. Logan’s got their attention. Logan, I’m locking drones. Dras?"
"Already uncloaking, mate. These turkeys are gonna eat cruise missiles!"
"Couldn’t happen to a nicer group of folks. Let her rip. Logan everything still solid?"
"No problems, Jarvis. Shields are taking it. Could use some help though."
"Drones engaging your target. I’m going to keep this one on the right busy to make sure he’s not got time to mess with Val. Activating microwarp - closing."
Logan kept up his missile salvo but that didn’t require all his attention. He cranked a sensor around to follow Hellstrom’s Oriflamme as she roared by the Drake and passed her own drones. The Thorax stooped like some planetary bird of prey, the microwarp cutting out as the Langour stasis field engaged the Gurista Raven battleship.
The Raven twisted helplessly in the Langour stasis like a giant fly in a spiderweb as Oriflamme closed to point blank range and opened fire with blasters. The giant Gurista ship’s shields flared under a barrage of close range anti-matter. Further over, Logan’s missile salvos had shattered shields and armor and were tearing apart the target’s structure. He watched as Hellstrom’s drones flew off and joined their mothership orbiting the other stricken Raven. Doing a quick assessment, Logan switched missile fire to the final, undamaged ship. Jarvis’ was about finished. From much further away, Dras’ Hound added her newly launched cruise missiles to the Drake’s. Those in flight finished off the original target, which exploded in a blaze of light and glowing wreckage. The last combat capable Gurista pirate shuddered and flashed as her shields flared. Hellstrom’s target went up like a freighter full of roman candles.
"Cargo transfer complete," Val stated calmly. "I’m taking her back to station then I’ll be back for another load."
Logan did a quick assessment. "Jarvis, I’m going to head back and get my hauler as well. You and Dras can finish that last guy off?"
"Easily. That’s excellent, thanks. I’ll take picket on the wrecks when he’s down."
"Warping out."
Logan mulled over the combat. The Roma folks had acquitted themselves well and so far Hellstrom had done a perfectly adequate job as squad commander. He supposed that shouldn’t really surprise him, it had been his main task in Roma Invicta before the merger. Still, while one never knew with command types, he had reason to expect this to be the case. As his ship cruised through the system he remembered why.
Logan had been standing quietly in the shadows. Below him, the crew of Jarvis Hellstrom’s cruiser stood in a most un-Caldari gaggle. Many of them were Gallente but most of them seemed to be Minmatari. Some wore uniforms bearing the sword and banner device of Oriflamme, others wore Minmatar leathers or Gallente robes or shifts. There was no rhyme nor reason to it at all. They stood quietly, waiting on their commander. The overlook was empty and dark, Logan thought he was alone and was surprised to see someone else enter from the narrow staircase and stand farther down the overlook. The man passed under a light, revealing himself as Valin Rourke - another of the former Roma pilots. Rourke was a good man with a fine precise mind. While he was Gallente, he was of the Intaki sub-race and in many ways as much Caldari as the Caldari themselves, even to his precise mode of dress.
Logan walked quietly up to Rourke, who nodded to him. "Valin."
They shared a long moment of silence. Below the crew mingled and waited.
"Why are you here?" Logan finally asked.
"I could ask you the same."
Logan smiled slightly. "I did ask first."
"Fair enough. I wanted to hear what Jarvis had to say to his crew. It might affect what I say to mine."
"Have you known him long? Hellstrom?"
Rourke nodded, reaching out to lean on the handrail. "I’ve known Jarvis for years now. He’s a - complex - man." Below Hellstrom was talking to some of his officers off to one side before mounting the low podium to talk to his crew.
Logan was surprised when Valin spoke again. "Jarvis was there for me when I needed someone. He sacrificed a lot, even though he didn’t have to. He’d be the very first to admit he’s not a perfect person although there’s no doubt that he’s passionate about the things that he believes. If anything, he’s probably harder on himself than he is on others, and certainly harder on himself than he should be."
"So he’s a friend."
"Friend. Comrade in arms. Mentor. Commander. He’s a lot of things." He took a long breath. "Think what you want about Jarvis Hellstrom, but keep this in mind before everything. Inside that skull is one of the last bastions of honor, loyalty and chivalry in the galaxy. And I don’t mean lip service to those either. I mean a man who LIVES those values. He’s an anachronism and he can even be a jerk on occasion but he’ll never say what he doesn’t mean and he’ll never go back on his principles. On those things you can always rely."
"You think rather highly of him."
"Yes, I do. And that isn’t going to change."
"Men and women of Oriflamme!" Above Hellstrom’s head a holo-still of Noir’s Nyx smashing into Ishukone station fizzled into existence. The Gallente commander lowered his voice, the pickups carrying it as a near whisper as he finished climbing up onto the stage. "Look at that. Look at that which is above me and remember.
"We are Gallente and Minmatar. Some of you are Caldari or Amarr, although not many. Above all, we are human. Remember that above and before everything else, we are human beings!" His voice rose until the last words had been a shout.
"That," he pointed at the Nyx, frozen in the act of atrocity, "is not the act of a man. It is the act of a monster. Of a madman. Of an animal.
"It is important to remember - we are not animals. It is also important to remember that we are here not just to line our wallets with ISK but to fight inhumanity. Yes, I pay well, but if any of you ever decides to fly with me only for the ISK then put in your resignation. This isn’t about money. Money is a means to an end. It gives us the ability to carry on the fight - but that is all that it does. We are here to battle animals. To slay those dogs in human clothing that infest these regions of space. We are here, to uphold the cause of humanity!
"That," he pointed again, "is only the most visible of the tragedies that afflict us all today. Murder, and slavery, assault, rape and destruction of people’s lives and happiness - that is our battleground. Never, ever, forget that. Because the day that we do, that," the Nyx again, "is what we become.
"An ancient philosopher once wrote, ‘If you gaze too long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes back into you." He raised his deep voice to thunder. "Let it gaze! Let it see the depth of our convictions and quail in terror. We are honor! We are duty! We are courage and WE WILL PREVAIL!" The holo-still of the Nyx winked out to be replaced with Oriflamme’s emblem and that of the Flying Tigers.
"Dismissed. We launch in two hours."
Logan shuddered, coming back to himself and beginning to navigate the Drake to the docking point. He’d quickly transfer back to his hauler to bring in the rest of the minerals the pirates had collected. A fortune was out there to be collected - The Flying Tigers had work to do.
* * *
The stevedores were unloading the last of the minerals. Logan checked the manifest one last time before signing it, looking up as Jarvis Hellstrom, Valin Rourke and Dras Leona walked up the landing stage.
"I’ll have everything broken out and send you a full accounting of each of your shares. Is that okay?"
The three former Roma pilots just looked at each other and grinned a bit. It was Hellstrom who answered. "We’re all Tigers, Logan. All in this together. Handle it however you think is best and fairest. We trust you. We may not be skilled, not yet anyway, but whatever happens Logan Galactor, we’ve flown and fought together. We got your back, mate."
And with that, the Tigers, all four of them, headed down together to the pub. Through the blood of terrible atrocity and through the fires of combat they had come to the promise of future friendship and trust. It was a beginning.