Terminus


They had been poets, once.


As he looked out from Terminus Baran at the twinkling lights as far as the eye could perceive, he couldn’t help but consider the irony in that. All over the planet, machines that had lain dormant for thousands upon thousands of years lurched once more to life. The entire world had seemingly sprung back to life in the past few weeks, like some unimaginably large machine.

Terminus was, in many ways quite literally, a time capsule, containing the pinnacle of the ancient Gree Imperium’s glory. It was a monument to their achievements as a race, a suspension of culture moments before its downfall, historically speaking.

But they had not always been this way.

So much had been lost in the mists of time, as all species eventually lose sight of their origins. So many planets, a race that had spread through nearly half the galaxy, seen races long past their peak in their infancy; how could they have possibly preserved their past in detail?

Yet somehow, the Apocrypha had survived. Its continued existence was a marvel to him. The collected writings must have been banned thousands of times throughout the existence of the Imperium, and unbanned just as many. Terminus contained, amongst its other treasures, the oldest surviving copy, now a relic sealed in vacuum for fear that mere contact with any atmosphere might dissolve it completely.

He had read it once, in his youth. It had piqued his interest, to be sure, but no more than an idle fancy. With writing so old, how could one be sure of the truth of any of it? A simple mistranslation here, a few pages lost there and rewritten…a year ago, he had known of no one on the planet who seriously believed a word of it.

In the past month, he had reread it maybe a few dozen times, and still he did not know what to think. But this much was true.

The Cree’Ar were their brothers.

Cyur Ator stood there, staring out at a dazzling array of lights in the distance. He had been forced to dim the settings on the window to stare at it without discomfort. It was the construction site, he knew, for the latest Baran. Before containment had been lifted, Terminus had only two others in its service, gathering dust in the shipyards.

Now, eleven orbited the planet. This would be the thirteenth in total.

The lights stretched endlessly into the distance. Even from the tower, he knew that even at the horizon they did not end. This Baran would be different from the others. It was nearly twice their size, and as he watched he knew it was being outfitted with the best weaponry Terminus had to offer. This Baran would not be named after its Operator, as was custom. For the first time in thousands upon thousands of years, this one would be named Gree Baran, flagship of his people.

This Baran would be his to command.

He hung his head.

One of his tentacles clutched at a datapad, now hanging limply at his side. Upon it, his personal copy of the Apocrypha lay open, a single verse highlighted. The text had been translated into Gree many years ago, but Cyur Ator’s copy was nonetheless in the Old Tongue, the study of which had been a hobby of his once upon a time.

The verse read:

Suffer them not to lead you astray, for in their eyes you will see yourselves, but behind their backs they will hold daggers. And you will fall by the edge of their swords, and they will lead you unto ruin. Forgive them, for they have lost the way, their God has turned to ash, their worship has led them to madness. They have forgotten gree. They will bring nothing but fire and war, that is all they know.

He had been working on translating the text on his own, in an effort to understand it as best he could. He glanced down at the text once more, and his eyes widened slightly in mild surprise. He had missed a word in the highlighted verse, a word so natural to his vocabulary that he had forgotten to translate it.

With a tentacle, he deleted, symbol by symbol, the word…

gree

…and replaced it with the correct translation from the Old Tongue…

peace

Looking back out the window at the Baran, he smiled sadly. The translation was complete, but it gave him no comfort. He felt he understood no better than he had before he had begun. A pact had been made. What were they doing here? Had their brothers forgotten the protocols? Or had the ancient Imperium’s relay stations truly failed?

Cyur Ator shook his head. He couldn’t believe that. Unless every one of them had been vaporized, the Cree’Ar would have picked up a signal. It was written into the satellite’s base protocols. No, he must assume they had ignored them. Which could mean only one thing…

They had finally lost their last shreds of sanity as a people. Now, even fratricide was the divine will of their Borleas Quayvar. And if that were the case, he had been right in telling Rokak'k that they would need help.

They had been poets once, but no longer.

Now, they were warriors; lost in time, fighting the last battle of one of the greatest empires to span the galaxy. A last, desperate, hopeless battle of survival, of cultural legacy. And now, it seemed, a battle of life and death.

One last time he gazed out the window, but not at the lights below. A tentacle stretched out and toggled several controls, the musical notes humming as the lights on the planet began to fade. If Cyur Ator hadn’t known better, he’d say the planet had shut itself down, but he had merely instructed the window to block them out. His eyes stretched upward, toward the night sky.

Every night, he gazed out at the stars. They were more beautiful than he had ever imagined they could be. And upon completion of Gree Baran, he would be seeing a lot more of them.

Their fate may very well lie in the hands of Men.



Bonadan


If Etti-IV was the newly reformed Republic’s beating heart, Bonadan was its pockets.

For years, the industrious world had dominated the Corporate Sector, until recently ruled by Seth Vinda’s iron fist. He had brought the words ‘benevolent dictator’ into the galactic economy’s dictionary, and it was perhaps the proverbial feather in his reputation’s cap that in the end, the only man that had been able to topple his base of power was himself.

And he had only done that to play a new game, to dominate a new field, that of politics. After his bid for Congress, many had said that Seth Vinda had gone down in the world, morally speaking.

Yet Vinda Corp. still flourished on its homeworld, providing the Republic with quite possibly the strongest economy of any current political entity in the galaxy. Thousands upon thousands of vessels made their way to and from the surface of the world every day, keeping the whole show going. Ships of all shapes and sizes, modifications and aesthetic touch-ups; everything you could imagine and quite a few things you couldn’t, all found docked in the myriad spaceports throughout the planet or on an entry/exit vector.

In fact, so diverse was Bonadan, so much had it seen, that when the nine thousand meter long Gree warship appeared, not reverted from hyperspace, simply appeared in orbit around the world, people could say in the days and weeks following that this had been the second time some strange, massive alien construct had decided to plant roots in the system.

Unlike the Astral Astoria, however, the Gree Baran had no intention of staying any longer than was necessary. And, as soon as it had been conveyed to several Bonadan communications officers in varying degrees of hysterics that their intentions were peaceful and that all they sought was an audience with one particular, if not auspicious, individual planetside, the scrambled fighters were waved off and arrangements were made for transport.

“Do you think we should have made an appointment?” Cyur Ator asked, eliciting the Gree equivalent of a snicker from his compatriot.

“If this…Sethvind’a’s reputation is correct, I am sure he could have afforded us some time as early as next year,” Rokak'k replied, and for a while the two’s tentacles quivered in laughter. As it subsided, the Gree Operator took on a more somber tone, “I must ask, my friend, why Bonadan? Why Sethvind’a? Should we not have headed to the center of their government?”

“I have studied human mannerisms much these past few weeks,” Cyur Ator replied, nodding in acknowledgment of the other’s concerns, “Arriving at the base of their government’s power in such a vessel could be misconstrued as a threat. A businessman such as Sethvind’a, however, will see it for what it truly is.”

“And that is?” Rokak'k ask, curious.

Cyur Ator glanced at the other slyly.

“A negotiating tactic.”

Bonadan should have been in complete chaos.

The appearance of the nine thousand metre long ship , should have disrupted and panicked the populace into a frenzy, along with its relevant authorities, indeed if this was any other planet in the galaxy, that probably would have been the case.

It was however, not the case for Bonadan, at least not any more.

The truth of the matter was, this was starting to be come an alarmingly common occurrence, perhaps in many places on-world even a case for an amount of deja vous, perhaps even a certain apathetic annoyance in some quarters. Of course this cavalier attitude was not shared by most of the population, including its government , alarm yes, excitement certainly, but most of all, readiness.

In the briefest moments of its appearance , the visitor's ship triggered the defense protocols put into place to counter-act such a maneuvre, and the alien vessel soon found itself the target of the planet's entire defense network, all smoothly swung into motion.

Planetary-level lasers, ion cannons, hidden anti-air batteries and missile defense silos , along with Bonadan's planetary shields , and its many back-ups activating into life or simply into standby in preparation.

Many of its complex and varied defenses hidden or camouflaged to give the impression it was not as heavily defended as it appeared. Silos disguised in plain view as normal buildings, bunkers hidden from sight completely, anti-air batteries scattered throughout the planet , disguised as part of the urban infrastructure or as some natural landmark. All done in such a way so as to not alarm its own populace, or to make its location easily seen by a potential enemy.

Indeed the population itself had not been forgotten. At Vinda's very own personal request, every city on Bonadan had a metro system installed. This deep underground network was to serve two purposes, to help and ease the congestion problems associated with such large urban centres , indeed once constructed , it not only performed this role admirably , but also helped keep pollution in check by cutting down on urban traffic, making the city centres virtually pedestrianized.

The other purpose it served was to offer sanctuary to its many denizens in case of orbital bombardment or attack. Tunneled deep underground, it would act as a safe refuge even if the city above it was nuked.

Of course it would not and could not save everyone, but it would certainly give its population a fighting chance at survival. Each city network was linked to the next and travel between them would be as simple as using the metro system itself.

Work on the network was started shortly after the Caprician Crisis, and after taking a leaf out of the Caprician's book, Vinda being impressed by their underground construction facilities , had ordered the system built , along with it supply stations , command bunkers and independent power systems, convinced that one day they might be needed.

To the average traveller or city-dweller, none of this was even noticed, as multiple turbo-lifts were installed to ferry its metro users to and from the surface, its descent, despite being many miles underground was brief, on purpose.

Thankfully, it appeared at least for now, these systems were not yet needed, and those who found themselves in hysterics at the sight of the visitors, were soon calmed by more sensible and experienced heads. Soon enough the disrupted civilian traffic was rerouted and redirected to avoid the massive ship (no mean feat in itself)

Whilst the sheer size of the alien vessel was a problem , this was more of a technical issue for the orbital authority more than anything else, and gradually an uneasy calm soon began to settle as , evidently, the visitors showed they were here to talk, rather than invade.








Onboard the shuttle 'Phoenix'...



As the shuttle negotiated its way through the air-traffic on its journey through Bonadan's upper atmosphere, Vinda let his eyes settle upon the woman sat opposite him, it had been quite a while since they had seen each other , but she had not changed.

He smiled to himself, her excitement was palpable, she could barely sit still.

The politican turned to face his aide and bodyguard, Achinta and grinned...

"Looks like our resident Xenobiologist is looking forward to meeting our new visitors"

Achinta simply smiled, but said nothing. Fay herself had been too focused on looking out of the window in order to see a glimpse of the alien ship they were heading too to actually hear the Vinda's words.

The corporate magnate sat back into his seat and did the same, they had all been briefed, and contact had been established, and now they were to meet these visitors, finally.

The worry that they could turn hostile at any moment was of course a major threat, but so far they had been very insistent on speaking with him, direct.

Which suggested, other motives.

His mind, searched in vain to conjur up an image of the Gree, he had not met one before, despite being privy to some of their very own technology.

A result of rescuing scientists of the Observer order Jedi.

So little was known about their species , but their legacy lived on.

Evidently they had heard of him, but that could have meant anything. His gaze drifted outside, watching the curvature of the planet begin to take shape as they broke out of the upper atmosphere, and shortly into orbit.

Soon enough the massive ship came into view, and the trio fell into awe at the sheer size of it.

How on Bonadan had such a secretive species such as the Gree managed to keep themselves hidden from the rest of the galaxy in ships as giant as this, was an achievement in itself.

The shuttle dwarfed by the huge alien vessel, was directed into what seemed to be a hanger , and soon enough began to slow , its maneuvering thrusters making themselves known by the slight vibration through the hull.

After a dull thud, and a small lurch, the shuttle landed, and as confirmation was rung through the comms, the small entourage got up from their seats in readiness.

As Vinda waited for the shuttle door to open , he straightened his tunic, and composed himself...

Contact with any species was important, but he couldn't shake the feeling this these visitor's importance had not yet been fully realised.

Gree Baran, Docking Bay Prime


To call Docking Bay Prime vast would be a gross understatement. Everything about the vessel seemed almost out of proportion with the galactic standard, almost as if it were specifically constructed for some massively sized species. Yet the Gree delegates stood on average one meter tall, just short of the average humanoid’s chest level.

What splendor, what lavishness for a race to display. It had all been earned millennia ago, far beyond the scope of this Republic’s memory. How could one possibly explain that? It was as if someone had torn down the ruins of a house and built anew, only to discover twenty years later the former residents had been hidden away in a basement cubby all this time.

Or, more accurately, a baridium shelter.

These thoughts flooded the mind of the Gree High Praefect as the Republic shuttle, at first only a mote of light caught on the system’s sunbeam, slowly grew larger and larger as it approached the designated landing pad.

“How…quaint,” Rokak'k murmered, eliciting a subtle tentacle shiver from Cyur Ator best described in human terms as a reluctant snigger.

Quaint was not exactly the term he would use to describe the dilapidated-looking shuttle. Days worth of research reminded him that the vessel that stood before them represented the pinnacle of this Republic’s space faring technology. It was advanced, in a human sort of way, yet it suggested that their galactic culture’s potential for innovation had long been stagnant.

He tried to remind himself that culture shock would be inevitable, and that they must be careful at all times not to offend their guests. So much depended upon this first meeting, he had never felt more nervous in all his cycles. What he wouldn’t give for one good diplomat of the old Imperium. They were scientists merely playing at politics.

“I trust you will be courteous, gre’vok (my friend)?” the Praefect gave his companion a look that suggested it would be very much in his best interest to say yes.

“Of course, Most Esteemed One.”

“I mean it, Rokak'k,” at any other time, he would have shrugged off the gree’s cavalier tone, but this was too important, “We only get one chance at this.”

“Yes, Ausel'k,” the change in his tone suggested that the recently promoted High Navarch of Gree understood perfectly.

The shuttle had landed relatively close to the delegation, but relative to the enormity of Docking Bay Prime meant that they were still several kilometers distant. Keying several commands into the repulsor sled the Gree delegation stood upon, Cyur Ator quickly had them speeding along at a high velocity, eager not to keep the Republicans from waiting, but also conscious of the panic that seeing a strange land craft on a rapid collision course with you might induce.

Cyur Ator noticed with a certain sense of pride that the Republic delegates were only just emerging from their vessel as the sled began its slow deceleration. No doubt their pilots had been scanning the interior of the vessel for quality of atmosphere. Rokak'k had put up a small fight, but Cyur Ator had been adamant that a Type I atmosphere be cycled throughout the parts of the ship the delegates would traverse.

Adjusting the breath mask the change in atmosphere required him as well as his delegation to wear, the High Praefect slid off of the sled and confidently approached the awaiting ambassadors. For a long while, neither party spoke, merely stared at each other. Cyur Ator knew he had to give them time to adjust being in the presence of what they must consider such strange looking cephalopods, but he had not anticipated being so stunned himself at seeing a humanoid in person for the first time in his life.

It was the man at the front of the Republic delegation that spoke first.

“On behalf of the Republic and the people of Bonadan, I welcome you to Republic space,” he said.

If the man seemed nervous about speaking for the first time to a wholly unique species, he showed no signs of it whatsoever. Cyur Ator had to give him credit for that. A brief silence followed, and the gree’s tentacles quivered imperceptibly into the smallest smile as he noticed the human woman standing behind the man fumbling for something in her bag, likely some sort of translation technology.

“Yellow-intersect,” Cyur Ator replied, much to everyone’s surprise, in a slow, halting Basic. Even Rokak'k widened his eyes, having assumed the Praefect would use the translation software within the vocoders built into their breath masks, “This gree shapes honor of entitlement Cyur Ator Ausel'k, High Praefect of Terminus Craft & Research Foundation, Sector 76 of former Gree Imperium. This one shapes honor of Rokak'k, High Navarch of Terminus Flotilla Prime. These ones shape honor of High Councilors of Terminus Baran. This gree...Cyur Ator...presumes this Man to be the black bisector Sethvind’a?”

“I am Seth Vinda,” the human that had spoken before affirmed.

“Seth…Vinda,” the gree attempted, clearly having trouble, “Forgive this gree’s…forgive my Galactic Basic Standard. This gree...'I' have been ascending to blue nanogon...ah, 'learning' only for seven…rotations? Seven…days. We have much to discuss, this gree hopes you will not be minding if it...if I…practice. I will use…translation…for...point-of-intersection…'complex subjects'. I…oh…pa’elok fe’esk’a. Forgive this gree’s manners.”

Shuffling forward tentatively to cross the gap between delegations, the Gree leader extended his rightmost tentacle in its best imitation of a handshake.