Tales from the Service: A Conversation with the Kyaroh, Part 2

2951-12-21 – Tales from the Service: A Conversation with the Kyaroh, Part 2 

This Feast week, we here at Cosmic Background hope that you are safe and well, and are able to spend time with your loved ones. Our embed team at Sagittarius Gate has the week off, just like employees back here at Centauri. This week’s entry will be a continuation of the interview transcript which Duncan posted last week. 

This interview was conducted in-person aboard the Sprawl station in the Sagittarius Gate system on 18 December. The wardroom of the ASWO’s office was employed as a familiar space for the interviewee. 

D.L.C. - Duncan Chaudhri is a junior editor and wartime head field reporter for Cosmic Background.     

N.T.B. - Nojus Brand is a long-time explorer, datasphere personality, and wartime field reporter for Cosmic Background.    

S.A.L. – Senior Advisor Lved is a close associate of the chief of the Kyaroh delegation to the Sagittarius Gate system, and speaks in this interview as a private individual of his people, not as an official representative of his government. Lved’s grasp of Anglo-Terran is quite good, but not perfect; in this transcript his words will be presented verbatim, without correction. 

T.B.M. – Commander Tory B. Monaghan is the Alien Sapient Welfare Officer for Kyaroh on the Sprawl. She has learned the language of her charges and in this interview will act mainly as an interpreter to smooth over language and cultural differences. 

[D.L.C.] – That is your hope, then? That after this war, that your people can learn from ours? 

[S.A.L.] – I mean not to offend, but I think it is more important to learn from the Incarnation, and why they so nearly subjugated our people. It is unlikely that your empire would do the same. 

[N.T.B.] – Wouldn’t, not couldn’t. 

[S.A.L.] – At this moment, distinction does not provide insight. Perhaps a future generation might find differently. 

[D.L.C.] – Imitating the Incarnation doesn’t sound like a good long-term development strategy to me. 

[S.A.L.] – Our people and yours are made in different images, Journalist Chaudhri. Imitation of the ways of any group of humans seems most unwise. When I speak of learning from our foes, it is not of copying their ways. 

[S.A.L.] – Perhaps the best comparison would be to how humanity learned from the Atro’me invasion. No-one could accuse that generation of copying the society of our invaders. 

[N.T.B.] – I suppose not. 

[D.L.C.] – What do you think your people have to learn from the Incarnation, then? 

[S.A.L.] – I lack the proper expertise to make such an analysis. But you wish for me to speculate? 

[D.L.C.] – Yes, if possible. We understand that it would be your best guess. 

[S.A.L.] – I do not wish even to speculate. Perhaps experts among your people are already compiling the best lessons from this conflict, but for our people, this would be unthinkable. The future must wait until the conflict’s end. 

[N.T.B.] – Is there anything more about your peoples’ future hopes that you want the average Confederated citizen to know? 

[S.A.L.] – Many things, but perhaps here we have only time for one. We will continue our fight with or without the Seventh Admiral’s aid. And we will endure. We will endure all things to their ending. 

[D.L.C.] – That almost sounded like it could come from a religious text. What gives your people the strength to endure? 

[S.A.L.] – I am sorry to mislead. It did not. Enduring troubles is our way in peace and in war. The Incarnation will someday fall, but the Kyaroh will remain. 

[N.T.B.] – And on that day, we will all find out what the new peace will mean for your people. 

[S.A.L.] – We will all find out what the new peace will mean for us all. This conflict’s ending will shape also the future of your people, since it is a war born within humanity. 

[D.L.C.] – That is true. The Incarnation has always seen us as the end goal of its conquests, even before we knew they existed out here. The Kyaroh, the Grand Journey, and everyone else native to Sagittarius are just in its way. 

[S.A.L.] – Another species might resent being “in the way” as we are, but we do not. If it were not for The Incarnation, another power might do the same to us. Or perhaps the Kyaroh would be doing the same to another people and bringing the wrath of many on our own heads. The futures that never took place are likely worse than our time. 

[N.T.B.] – I like that attitude. It reminds me of Card, one of my favorite old-Earth novelists. 

[S.A.L.] – Interesting. When this conflict is ended, if I remain living, I might research this “Card” - that is a name used among the Kyaroh, too. 

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Tales from the Inbox: The Last Suit Standing

2952-01-03 – Tales from the Inbox: The Last Suit Standing 

There is quite a cottage industry in people smuggling themselves and others on and off of occupied Frontier worlds these days. Obviously I consider this practice foolhardy, and the Navy specifically forbids it, both because of the danger and the risk that captured persons might provide our enemies with useful intelligence. 

Our submitter today claims to have made such a trip to Adimari Valis to try to locate an old friend of this feed, Jacob Borisov. We too have heard rumors that he and his men are not quite as dead as most have supposed. Unfortunately, unlike the Lost Squadrons, Borisov and his mercenaries do not seem likely to be retrieved.  

Jagi Jorgiev watched the figure on the hilltop for several minutes. It didn’t move even slightly in that time, but that was not unusual; its hulking shoulders and thick, metal-clad chest were not burdened by the need to breathe. Its silhouette slowly occluded the setting stars as they marched toward the western horizon as if it were merely part of the ridgeline. 

Jagi knew better, though. A Rico suit might be motionless for hours while its operator was scanning every sensor readout, or playing a game on the internal computer’s tiny holo-display. The operator could also be sleeping, to be wakened at any moment by the perimeter sensor alarm.  

More likely, though, the armored suit was empty, or a corpse filled its padded interior. It had been years since Adimari Valis had been occupied by the Incarnation, years since the remaining mercenaries and members of the planet’s garrison had been forced to go to ground and hide from the invaders. The chances of keeping a Rico suit in good repair that long were not good, even if one had whole supply dumps worth of spare parts to work with. So far from the main roads, on a planet with many more conveniently accessed battlefields, the occupiers probably wouldn’t even bother to haul the machine to the scrap melters. 

The chance that this Rico suit was still operational, though remote, kept Jagi under cover as dawn crept closer. She had come to the Valis to find her old boss, even if only as a corpse. Old Commander Borisov had been on the planet’s surface with his men when the escape doors had slammed shut. Everyone with him had been officially listed “missing on operation” for almost four years. His mercenary company had gone bankrupt not long after the fall of the Matusalemme system, and Borisov’s beloved Taavi Bancroft had been sold to pay corporate debt. Those who hadn’t been planetside to be trapped with their boss had been forced to watch their hard-won life cut up and sold to the highest bidder piecemeal.  

True, none of them had been long in finding new work, not with the war still raging, but for Jagi, the loss of the Bancroft mercenary company had been like losing her family all over again. She’d been at the old hulk’s helm station the day Borisov had purchased it, and on the day it had been sold. Even after three years as the XO for the smaller merc outfit Hadelson’s Horde, she still missed her old crew, her old commander, her old life.  

The Horde had been sad to see her go, but she had been relieved to see the last of them. They were good mercs, as far as it went, but they weren’t family. She’d spoken to Professor Courtenay shortly after his return from the Valis in May 2951, and from him she’d learned that individuals from at least three mercenary units – her own crew included – were still alive and active down on the surface, hiding Xenarch artifacts from Incarnation looters. The day after that, she’d started planning her own trip to occupied territory. Perhaps only a handful of Borisov’s men still clung to this doomed mission, but Jagi knew she’d be at home among them, whatever would come. 

Finding them had proven far more difficult than anticipated, however. Knowing the approximate region from Courtenay had given Jagi a place to start, but finding one band of stranded mercs in a hundred thousand square kilometers of badlands and narrow, thickly vegetated valleys was hard enough even when they did want to be found, and when there were not desperate brigands and Incarnation patrols to contend with. Jagi had been on the planet four months so far, her own supplies long since replaced by provisions stripped from ruined villages or taken from dead Incarnation soldiers.  

This solitary figure on the hilltop was the first Rico suit in all that time she’d seen except a few twisted wrecks sprawled at the roadside, and though it should have given her hope, it filled her instead with dread. If the suit did have a living occupant, she would be just another threat crossing the perimeter under cover of darkness. If it didn’t, then it would still have markings, and Jagi might know by those markings the final resting place of someone she had known aboard Bancroft. It might also be the armor of a mercenary from some other unit, but that didn’t seem very likely.  

Dawn, of course, would not make things much better. Dawn would bring Incarnation aerial patrols, and Jagi had already had too many close calls with trigger-happy airborne psychopaths happy to strafe a lone exposed figure on the ground.  

Jagi still had one of Commander Borisov’s old friend-call comms squawkers, of course, but she didn’t want to risk its broadcast, because the signal could be picked up by nearby Incarnation units, and there was no guarantee the friendlies still had working communications gear. This, too, was a problem she hadn’t anticipated before making landfall. How could she signal her identity without also signaling her position to unfriendly watchers? 

Dislodged stones clattered behind Jagi. She ducked lower in the tumble of stones that hid her and peered into the darkness, her hand falling to the trusty railgun on her hip. She held her breath, but saw nothing, and heard nothing else besides her own pounding pulse. 

A cold, sharp object pricked Jagi’s back. “Hands forward. Up. Slowly, now.” 

Jagi complied, slowly rising to her feet and keeping her hands in front of her chest, far from her gun. She’d thought she was outside the range of any Rico suit’s sensors, but perhaps she’s been mistaken. “I’m looking for-” 

“Shut up.” The man hissed as he yanked Jagi’s sidearm out of its holster and patted her for other weapons. “The only thing to find out here is trouble, and damnation, you’ve found it.” 

Jagi’s jaw dropped. She recognized this voice. “That you, Ruskin?” 

“Oy. How in all creative-” The man fumbled about and produced a tiny light, which he waved in front of Jagi’s face. “Jorgiev. Are you mad? Why... How...” 

“Story for a safer place.” Jagi shrugged. “Can you get me to the others? Where’s Commander Borisov?” 

Ruskin sighed. “We’ve both got stories to tell, then. Come on.” 

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Tales from the Inbox: The Sentinel in Desolation

2952-01-10 – Tales from the Inbox: The Sentinel in Desolation 

Ruskin paused below the ridgeline, not five meters from the feet of the still-silent suit. “Any chance you were followed?” 

Jagi Jorgiev glanced up at the suit. “I don’t think so. Why not ask your friend up there?” 

Ruskin chucked. “That’s my suit. Or it was. Damned thing’s servos finally locked up three months ago and we don’t have anything to move it.” 

Jagi frowned in the darkness. How had Ruskin managed to keep an armor-suit powered, let alone repaired, for several years stranded on Adimari Valis? Their systems were designed for only a few days of operations at a time without being gone over by techs, and all of Commander Borisov’s company techs had still been aboard ship when the planet had been cut off. 

“That was the last of the old company suits, too.” Ruskin continued. “Damned shame. Though I suppose there was nothing special about those old Vasilev Model Eights except our paint job, and we scrubbed that off long ago.” 

“What have you been doing here all this time?” 

Ruskin started moving again, and gently nudged Jagi to follow. “Let’s get somewhere safe.” 

“Somewhere safe” proved to be a cave mouth on the opposite slope so small that they could only enter on their hands and knees, one at a time. Jagi hated confined spaces, so she was glad when not two meters inside, it widened. Electric lights came on almost immediately, revealing a circular chamber tall enough to stand, with two almost head-height passageways out and down on the opposite side. Though the walls and vaulted ceiling were weather-worn stone, the chamber had a comfortably regular shape, and could almost have been made by human hands. Electric lights  

“Now then.” Ruskin set his gun beside the entrance and sat up against one wall. “Nate’s not going to bother us in here.” 

Jagi nodded. Looking around, she was dismayed to find no evidence that anyone lived in the cave except Ruskin himself; there was only a single bedding pad next to the jumble of gear and ammunition near the inside wall. “What happened to everyone else?” 

“There are seven of us left from the old company.” Ruskin shrugged. “As long as the enemy thinks we’re all surviving on our own, way out here, we’re not worth hunting to them.” 

Jagi raised her hands to encompass the cavern. “Aren’t you doing that?” 

Ruskin smiled. “Looks that way, doesn’t it?” He pointed to the stone floor. “This area has some of the densest Xenarch ruins on the whole planet. There are tunnels down there that go for a hundred klicks in any direction. Nate knows some of them exist because they connect to other ruins, but the path through is too dangerous for them to do much about it.” 

“And you’re somehow keeping it that way?” 

“There are quite a few of us. Locals, mercs, a few of the scientists. Someone’s got to do it.” Ruskin pointed to a crate. “Want something to eat? All I’ve got is Nate rations, but help yourself.” 

Jagi nodded. “I might have liberated some of those myself. What about the Commander?” 

“Ah.” Ruskin scratched his chin. “I can’t rightly tell you what’s happened to him. We hooked up with some survivors from Erma’s Angels who still had working armor-suits about eight months after we got stuck here. Borisov and a few of the boys went with most of them down into the deep tunnels, and never came back.” 

“He’s dead?” Jagi winced. She had believed she’d find Jacob Borisov alive. Perhaps that had always been a fool’s hope. 

“Dead? Possibly.” Ruskin shrugged. “Probably not, though.” 

“He’s been missing for what, three years?” Jagi couldn’t believe Ruskin’s lack of concern. Their commander, the head of their little mercenary family, had been trapped underground for that long? 

Ruskin nodded. “They took one of those fancy survival food-fabs down with ‘em. Couldn’t take everyone, its output is limited if all you feed it is the slime that grows down there. Thing’s not supposed to need service for ten years.” 

“Why would he do that?” Jagi shook her head. “Go down there, I mean.” 

“Same reason we’re up here. To deny Nate anything good.” Ruskin shrugged. “The old man talked to some of the scientists, and they think... they think there’s something down there in those tunnels. A Xenarch weapon. He went to find it before Nate does.” 

“And you think he’s still doing that? You think it would take years to find?” 

“Jorgiev, it could take a hundred years.” Ruskin waved a hand dismissively. “Ah, but you haven’t seen the tunnels. After we meet up with the others in the morning, I’ll let you down into the first level. Then you’ll see.” 

“Well, if you’re not worried about Commander Borisov, then I shouldn’t be, right?” Jagi squared her shoulders. In point of fact, she was very worried. Even if one could survive there for so long, years of wandering subterranean alien ruins was an experience likely to drive even the most hardened mercenary mad. 

“Worry about yourself first. No idea what you had planned coming here, but you’re in the thick of the mess here with us now.” Ruskin pointed up. “And before dawn, you need to persuade our friends in the sky that you passed me by.” 

Presumably, Ruskin was talking about a satellite network. No doubt the Incarnation had installed just such an array to keep tabs on their conquered planet. “Persuade them how?” 

“Hike up to the next ridge and make camp however you’ve been doing it so far.” Ruskin gestured to his, supplies. “Eat something, you might as well. If our mutual friends have been following your movements, let’s make them think you’re still moving. With the help of the whole group, we’ll make camps for you in a neat little trail all the way to a major road.” 

Jagi nodded. “I understand.” She rose, then remembered that she’d have to crawl out. “It’s good to see you again, Ruskin.” 

“And you, Jorgiev. But you really shouldn’t have come all the same.” Ruskin pointed to the entrance. “Get going. You don’t have much time until dawn.” 

Despite the assurances presented to Jagi by her associate, I find it unlikely that Borisov and his compatriots remain alive. Their fellows operating on the surface have been very fortunate to survive this long, but it seems overwhelmingly likely that the group that went into the deepest and probably least structurally sound parts of this ruin complex was lost to their deaths. 

This rumor of a Xenarch superweapon to be found there is something that Naval Intelligence does not seem to take seriously. If they did, it would not be something I would have been permitted to post about in this space. 

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Tales from the Service: The Burning Chain

2952-01-17 - Tales from the Service: The Burning Chain 

While this week’s Incarnation move into the Farthing’s Chain region is news by any standard, you will not find daily coverage of this development in this space. The embed team controlling this feed is still based in Sagittarius Gate, too far from the situation to provide any meaningful coverage. 

What we will do, as usual, is curate and provide what accounts are sent to us by people nearer the situation than us. It seems unlikely that either Fifth Fleet or Seventh Fleet will be able to respond fast enough to get ahead of this attack, and so many of my own contacts are not positioned to provide good front-line coverage of this situation. 

The offensive’s goal remains somewhat unclear, even to those Navy senior officers who I was able to speak to about this matter off the record. Fourth Fleet is well positioned to counter any advance into the Confederated Core Worlds, and the reported strength of forces seen at Saunder’s Hoard suggests that at most one-third of the enemy’s strength is participating in this offensive, with the rest waiting to pounce on Maribel if Fifth Fleet moves against the attacking force. 

What is clear is that small groups of enemy ships smashed Hypercast Relays and other communication infrastructure in at least six systems simultaneously, briefly crashing Hypercast relay service throughout the better part of the Reach. The network is back up now, including in the theaters of war; Navy backup stations have been activated to patch the hole the Incarnation intended to create. The situation is in the systems hit, however, is still quite unknown. It is unlikely that the enemy has the strength to invade any more than one of those worlds. 

Today’s entry does come from Farthing’s Chain, though unfortunately not from those systems most affected. Though I cannot confirm this, our submitter on this account suggests that groups of enemy ships attempted similar destruction in some systems but were prevented, either by notably strong system security forces, mercenaries who happened to be present, or, as in this instance, some combination of both. 

Maya Szymanski had never seen an Incarnation warship, and hadn’t particularly wanted to. True, she was in the mercenary business, but the helm station aboard the clunky cargo-hauler-turned carrier Rothschild was probably the safest place in the whole industry, even with a war on. No commander would ever willingly take such an ungainly ship anywhere an enemy warship might conceivably show up.  

Normally, it was parked at least two systems away from a conflict zone doing its best impression of an orbital service station, with the dozen strike craft that lived in its hangar escorting transports and supply ships on the dangerous passage to and from their destinations in the theater of combat. Its ancient fusion reactor was so creaky and its gravitic drive so cantankerous that Rothschild spent entire weeks without the ability to even break orbit; its techs spent a whole week checking everything over before they would permit the use of its museum-piece Xiou-Edwards projector array. 

For the first time in the ten years Maya been aboard, the battle-stations klaxons aboard Rothschild were blaring, and the strike craft in the hangar were being scrambled for an emergency launch. Four Incarnation cruisers were inbound, barely 150 million kilometers away and closing fast. 

Maya’s hands sweated as she gripped the cumbersome ship’s controls, but she knew that there was realistically little she could do to alter her own fate, or that of anyone else aboard. There was hope for syrvival, but not too much of it. This was the Atwood system, one of the most idiosyncratic and independent-minded colonies in a region of notoriously idiosyncratic and independent systems. The system’s militia force boasted three destroyers, five frigates, and a dozen or so heavily armed cutters, an impressive array of hulls even if their crews were of questionable quality.  

Rothschild was also not the only mercenary vessel in the system; her competitors Dernhelm and Amit Aliev, vessels of similar provenance, were also scrambling their squadrons. The mercenary light cruiser Callaghan, which had been taking on supplies from its logistics ship, was now charging at emergency thrust to a rendezvous with the local squadron. 

“Helm, break orbit as soon as our squadron has launched.” Captain McCreery got up from his crash-padded chair and began to pace along the bridge’s long central walkway. He often did that when the squadron was away on a dangerous mission, when it couldn’t do any harm to him or anyone else. 

“Aye.” Maya had already plotted a course that would take Rothschild behind Atwood, so obeying that command would take only the push of a button. “For the record, Captain, we won’t make it.” 

“We’ll get behind the planet if Callaghan and the militia engage those cruisers for a few minutes.” McCreery shrugged as he passed Maya’s station. “After that... God knows. Comms, how’s our signal to the relay?” 

“We have a strong beam.” Ted Duncan, the comms technician, sounded hopeful. “The Navy knows they’re here.” 

Maya didn’t have the heart to point out that even if the Navy had a day’s warning about the attack on Atwood, they’d have no way of moving ships in from Maribel in time to counter it. The cavalry was probably almost a week away, and the forces assembled in Atwood couldn’t hold out for more than a few hours.  

“Rothschild, connect your squadron to Atwood tactical network C.” Commodore Meier’s barking voice almost made one forget that he’d never served in any military larger than Atwood’s defense force, or that he was commanding the impending battle from a bunker on the planet’s surface. 

“Will do, Commodore.” McCreery waved to Duncan, who started setting up the connection. “For your sake and ours, I hope you guys have some SLAM sites down there.” 

“Our surface defenses are secret.” Meier snapped. “Get that hulk out of the line of fire, then get your crew to praying. Never worked for me in the past, but it can’t hurt to try.” 

McCreery didn’t bother to dignify that with a response; he merely waved again to Duncan to sideline the channel. 

“Captain, we have begun launch.” The voice on the intercom wasn’t that of the hangar chief; no doubt some underling had been delegated to report up to the bridge while the chief sorted out some last- minute issue with one of the rigs. 

A moment after the technician had finished his report, a strike-craft flashed past the bridge viewpanel and arced away into the darkness, followed by a second. For all her feeling of helplessness, Maya didn’t wish her place changed with those who had some ability to affect the outcome; the strike crews were in far greater and more immediate danger than anyone aboard the ponderous carrier. 

“Hang on. That can’t be right.” McCreery pointed to the secondary display showing Meier’s tactical plot. “Whichever sensor post is reporting that is going haywire, Commodore.” 

Maya glanced over at the plot. At first, it looked just as it had – four sinister triangular indicators bearing down on the desperate huddle of local defenders in their way. Only on a second look did she notice that the estimated course of the Incarnation ships was no longer directly toward Atwood; it showed the ships passing one or two million klicks from the planet, far outside conventional weapons range. 

“Multiple stations confirm, Mr. McCreery.” Meier sounded mystified, and perhaps a bit relieved. “Op-for is changing course to avoid a battle. I’m going to pull the fleet back toward the planet.” 

Maya winced; velocity was protection to any vessel of war, and forcing the defending force to reverse its course would force it to zero out and then start rebuilding the shield of speed. Meier’s duty was to the planet, of course, not to the defending ships; he had to prevent his force from being simply maneuvered away from a world full of civilians. 

“There, the course changed again.” McCreery scowled at the display for several seconds. “Are they... Are they running away? From us?” 

“Looks all hells like it, Captain.” Ted Duncan giggled nervously. “I didn’t know we had it in us.” 

Maya gave Duncan a pitying look. “We didn’t.” She pointed out the forward viewpanel. “They weren’t expecting a fight here at all.” 

McCreery nodded. “Whatever they wanted here isn’t worth the risk of a stand-up fight.” His shoulders slumped. “Continue with that course as soon as the squadron is away.” 

“Aye.” Maya put her hands underneath her console to hide the fact that they were trembling. 

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