Aetheral Space

Ruth strode into the cavernous meeting hall, glancing around as Agnes and her entourage moved over to her seat.

The room was split into ten sections, one for each member of the Central Governing Council, with a huge round table in the middle for the councillors to sit at and discuss matters galactic. As their group walked towards the Adrust section, Ruth glanced at their unexpected attaché once more. The Widow.

To tell the truth, Ruth still wasn't 100% sure what role she played here. The old woman had been Skipper's teacher, sure, and part of that Vantablack Squad that worked for Pierrot -- but where did Agnes and Adrust come into it? Was it just because the Widow originally came from Adrust? Ruth doubted it. She didn't have a head for these things, but this whole thing stank of some kind of conspiracy.

She clenched her fists.

None of my business, she thought. I'm just sticking with this until I can get what I want.

"Hey," called out a husky voice from across the room. "Hey!"

Ruth turned to look -- and saw a grey-skinned young man glaring at her from across the table. That skin, and those golden eyes… this guy was from Brainen, then, right? Nebula Six?

"What?" she asked.

"Nebula Five, right?" he said, slowly circling the table as he approached her. "You're that asshole's replacement. How's it feel? Stealing a man's number and his title. That's fucked."

Ruth looked over at Agnes -- but if she was bothered by the way this guy was talking about her brother, she didn't show it. She was just sitting down at the table, her aides carefully arranging her diplomatic materials in front of her.

"Hey, bitch," the man growled as she continued to look away from him. "I'm talking to you."

Ruth rolled her eyes as she turned back. She might not have been able to remember this guy's name, but his attitude was familiar enough.

"Next time you say something worth listening to," she glared right back. "I'll listen. Until then, you're just noise, dickhead."

Funnily enough, the man seemed to smirk at that, a certain pep in his step as he retreated back to Brainen's section of the chamber.

The Brainen representative -- a scarred man wrapped tight in a grey cloak -- had already taken his seat there. Soldiers in stone armour guarded him on either side, almost comically huge maces slung over their shoulders. Their visors were so thin that it was hard to tell what they were looking at -- or if they could even see -- but Ruth got the distinct sense they were glaring.

Ruth tore her gaze away to stand next to her seated employer, hands clasped professionally, ready to respond to any threats. The model Nebula.

The other members of the council -- and their entourages -- entered the room one by one, each time with great aplomb.

Miserable Misery Locke and his hulking silent killer, Forgiveness Irons. Tiny white eyes stared through Ruth as the murderer stalked past.

Boisterous Maximum Gainhill and the cowgirl May Miracles. She offered Ruth a wink as she walked past the Adrust section -- Ruth quickly looked away.

Yulia If-Void and Luna, the hushed representatives of Abra-Facade, made their way to their seats silently. Ruth shuddered as she watched Luna walk with uncanny grace. Something about that girl just wasn't right.

Elderly Albert Raise, the esteemed statesman of the Lesser Chain, made his way to his seat with a cane of Apex wood. His new Nebula, a fully-armoured knight -- complete with sword and shield -- stared at Ruth for a moment before moving on. It only made sense: clearly, they were both armour-users.

Nebula Three, Tom Foolery, carried his diminutive employer upon his shoulder. The green-skinned woman looked around the room with a bright smile as her Nebula carried her to her chair. She seemed much happier than anyone else here. Was that wise?

The Oba of Inganci strode solemnly to his place, followed by Jamilu Aguta and a procession of other Inganci warriors. Even among their ranks, though, Nebula Two exuded a certain pressure… but that wasn't so different from the presence of the Oba himself. Ruth got the feeling this head of state could actually be a match for his Nebula in combat, if it came down to it.

And then, sitting at the head of the table -- or at least the spot with the window directly behind -- was Lord Mayor Shen Xiurong of Jìnhuà. Ruth had seen some members of the Scarlet Parade acting as additional security on her way in, their faces wrapped tight in crimson bandages. Inside this room, though? The Lord Mayor required only one form of security.

Nebula One.

He stood before the window, arms crossed, silhouetted against the shining cityscape of Serendipity. The Nebula of Brainen scowled at him, muttering under his breath.

"Nebula One, my ass," he growled. "Yeah, bet it's real easy when you can just buy some armour to get the job done…"

If Nebula One heard his complaints, though, he didn't react to them at all. He just stayed there, arms still crossed, ready and waiting for anything. As far as bodyguards went, he seemed pretty locked in.

"I've received word that the representative of the Pandershi Foundation will be running late," Xiurong said, straightening the papers before him. "As such, I propose we begin our discussions now and fill the representative in when and if he arrives. Are there any objections?"

"Is this a joke?" the Landgrave of Brainen nearly spat, his scarred face twisted in disgust. "The man calls us across the galaxy, and fails to show up himself? He's mocking us."

"Perhaps," Albert Raise, Prime Minister of the Lesser Chain, spoke up with a voice wavering with age. "But the Pandershi Foundation provides our technological edge over the Supremacy. In exchange for that, I for one am willing to accept some level of mockery."

Stolen story; please report.

The Landgrave raised a patchy eyebrow. "The regent of a dying nation may be willing to accept a clown dancing on his grave, but Brainen will not. I will require a full apology from Pandershi before I acknowledge him again as a member of this council."

"Noted," Xiurong said -- he'd taken control of the meeting as if it were natural. "We'll pursue this request with the representative upon his arrival."

There was a quiet -- very quiet -- croaking noise from the Rakebone section of the table. It took Ruth a second to realise that this was Misery Locke, trying to clear his throat to get attention while also trying to make it as quiet as possible to avoid getting attention. All the same, in the near-silent room, eyes turned to regard him.

"The Elders don't want to talk about Pandershi," he said in a trembling voice. "They want to talk about Yutra V."

Zephyr Pandershi adjusted the filter on his rebreather as he marched down into the depths of the Seat of Man.

His amber eyes narrowed at the dirty hallways and flickering lights -- honestly, this kind of disrepair spoke ill of the UAP as a whole. These bottom-most levels, just below the building's cold-harvest array, were mostly used for storage -- but still. There was a reason Zephyr couldn't bring himself to breathe in the filthy air down here, even with his obvious physical advantages.

Even saying that, though… the dire state of this part of the complex made hiding things here very easy.

Of course, 'easy' was relative. Bribing maintenance staff, reprogramming the regular security sweeps, reallocating storage logs… for anyone that was not Zephyr Pandershi, it surely would have been quite the task.

For him, though? It barely qualified as a chore.

He stopped in front of the door. Before the events of the day truly kicked off, he needed to make sure that this was in place. Sending one of his 'subordinates' wouldn't do, either. You hardly used a fingernail to look at something, did you? No. You used your eyes, your mind, your mastermind.

So it went.

"Voice activation," Zephyr said calmly. "Oh Jolly Goodfellow."

Red lights ran across the frame of the door -- the time-lag was nigh-unacceptable -- before finally switching to green as the voiceprint was accepted. Another reason Zephyr had to do this in person. The doors slid open, and Zephyr stepped forward into the huge chamber. His amber eyes narrowed as he regarded his prize.

It had been waiting for him.

The automatic floated ominously over the ground, halfway between the floor and the ceiling, held aloft by no visible means -- not even the telltale ripple of a repulsor. It was shaped like a stark-white bead, around the size of a car, its tail curling into a tip blinking with silver light. Apart from that, it was featureless, perfect in its simplicity and grace.

And all around, there was communication.

Golden equations carved themselves into the air. Words and phrases -- encrypted and ciphered -- flickered in and out of view, made meaningless by speed and rearrangement. Omnilinguistic whispering hissed through the air, bouncing off the walls as it replied to itself, increasing in complexity with each rebound. Poems and songs and instructions and demands, pouring out through every available avenue. This wonder of the galaxy had taken a lot for Zephyr to acquire.

The Lovers -- or at least half of it. One of the Arcana Automatics that had terrorized the galaxy during their rampage after the Thousand Revolutions. While it wasn't the deadliest of those mechanical legions, it certainly was one of the most fascinating.

The function of the Lovers had been communication -- connecting all of the Arcana Automatics throughout the galaxy to coordinate their violent assaults. In order to avoid these communications being blocked, mad Etteilla had given this dual automatic the ability to push its own systems forward through evolution.

As such, its capacity for communication had grown… and grown… and grown… until now -- when, either after the network itself was destroyed, the Lovers' ability to communicate had progressed past the point of comprehension. Even Zephyr Pandershi didn't understand how it worked at this point… and if he didn't, then nobody did.

Still, even if he didn't understand it, that didn't mean he couldn't use it.

Words weren't the only things that could be communicated, after all.

"Yutra V," Xiurong said gravely. "Yes. We received the news last night -- there's been an attack. The entire colony wiped out. Men, women, and children."

Noise rippled through the room at the declaration. Max Gainhill of the Maraze State looked down at his papers, shuffling through them with his meaty hand. He scowled.

"Why am I only hearin' about this now?" he grumbled.

Xiurong looked at him. "As I said, we received this news only last night. It's all but breaking."

"No bullshit," Gainhill glared back. "Feels to me like you're tryin' to pull off an ambush here, Xiurong. This should have been distributed before we even stepped into the building. What's your angle?"

"My team's been working on a response," Xiurong replied smoothly. "I don't agree with your appraisal of the situation, but I'd like to submit it for the approval of this council."

"Pardon," Albert Raise of the Lesser Chain raised a hand. "Before we look at action plans or any of that nonsense, I think this council should hear about what exactly has happened on this… Yutra V? The specifics, I mean."

"Of course," Xiurong nodded. "It's one of our border colonies -- the far border, established as part of the treaty following the Kingdom Moon Incident. It was home to only around five hundred colonists… but symbolically, its value is immense. I believe it was referred to as a 'lantern of peace' at the time."

"The lantern is snuffed out," whispered Yulia If-Void of Abra-Facade. "And the peace leaves no shadow."

"Quite. At first, we believed this to be the work of pirates or bandits that operate on the border… there's no shortage of suspicious groups in the region. But upon further investigation… well…"

Words weren't necessary. His face still grave, Xiurong reached across the table and flicked a switch, activating the holographic display. Pale light flowed over the faces of those gathered as they looked up at the picture woven by light. Xiurong's severity was mirrored on each and every one of them.

The image said enough.

The central square of Yurta V, already littered with bloody bodies, with a group of soldiers firing somewhere out-of-view. What they were shooting at wasn't the problem, though. The problem was who they were. Supremacy soldiers.

"The one wearing the mask," the Landgrave of Brainen grunted. "The one in front. Do we know who?"

The golden Principality behind the Oba's head rotated rapidly, twinkling with light as he drew on its information. "I know of them," he nodded sagely. "The Crown. They used to be part of the Supremacy's military, too, before signing up for the Dawn Contest. Seems they managed to avoid the Banquet and join back up."

"An authorized attack, then?" the Landgrave turned to his fellow military leaders. "The new Supreme?"

Max Gainhill snorted angry air from his nose. "Argh, it would make sense. He ain't exactly the most popular a new Supreme's ever been. Nothing brings that bunch together like a good ol' war."

"Our analysis concurs," Xiurong said. "And that's why -- by the end of the day, before we can proceed with any action plan at all -- we need to agree…"

He leaned forward, and spoke with the grim voice of history.

"...are we going to war with the Supremacy?"