The Infinite Trifecta

There are three people in this galaxy that you do not fuck with:



Masquerade, the Information Broker, as his knowledge is infinite;

Achamian, the Mandate Grandmaster, as his understanding is infinite;

and Ahramayav, controller of the Infinite Chorus, as his cruelty is infinite.

The Pit of Hatred

"I don't hate you. Hate is such a brutal, definitive word. I hate when a child loses its mother. I hate when a father must bury a son. But you? No, all I feel for you is disgust. At the very pit of my heart, a disgust that I will never wash away, a disgust that I will carry with me until the day I die."

Daneel-451, leader of the Cendran Badge 'NanoSun', speaking to Young Santos, the undead leader of the Ghoul and Human Open Unification League, shortly before peace negotiations ceased.

No Price Too High

There was no love greater than that between Indara and Ahram, the Sorcerers of the Court of the Dreamweaver. When Indara looked death in the face one eve after battle, Ahram was left alone to wrest the soul of his beloved from the Unreal. Ahram found himself battered and broken by the daemons therein, his last resort? He turned to the enemy of his enemy, and made a deal with a powerful trifecta of Emyprean. He traded everything he had, and much of what he didn't, and brought Indara back from the brink. She would live for almost 1,000 years, but he could spend only a single day with her out of every 300. And in response? The Infinite Chorus asked for relatively little, that couldn't be acquired with a blade..

Affectations

"We were lifeless, in the way only an immortal could be; without an end, it was postulated, we did not truly exist. We could do anything, go anywhere, because we weren’t alive, we didn’t exist, we didn’t affect the galaxy in the same way as the lesser species. We were more eternal than the stars themselves, more a fact of existence rather than an example; we had defied entropy, the last great enemy of life.

"With enough time we could justify anything. Morality fell away, becoming a meaningless exercise in a series of laws we no longer obeyed. There was no death penalty, no prison that could hold us, and our species had gone far beyond the petty ideals of justice and punishment. We could strip away the layers of existence and not worry about the consequences since we were beyond end, beyond death.

"A part of me isn’t surprised it ended. We defied entropy, and it sat sullen and sulking in the corner until it found a way to simply defy us."

The Villains - or Heroes - of Old Ripley

"The town was an unassuming place named Old Ripley. It had a quiet population, a minor crime problem, but a security force that worked hard to make the streets safe for the general populace of this isolated town on Arcan. However, no amount of security in Drex can make those streets safe now."

The screen cuts away from the young NSI reporter, that smiling comely form quickly replaced by the snarling masses of erratics rampaging through a towns streets. Camera's swooped overhead on drones or light craft, capturing what they could before the tide of erratics - there were at least 50, maybe more - began hurling things towards the camera. Something struck hard, and the camera lost focus. The screen was replaced by the last image it clearly recorded - the erratic was about the size of a man, bipedal, covered in a light fur and snarling. Its open mouth revealed a set of fused-together teeth, and its eyes showed no compassion, no mercy, and barely any recognition. It was naked, and mounted on its genital was the skull of some unknown creature, still partially covered in flesh and blood. In the background, more of the display was pixellated than was actually visible. The screams, although digitally quietened, still spoke of terror.

Alexander quietly imagined the onrush of disgust from the people watching this from their comfortable fortress in the centre of Drex. Children turning away, mothers covering their eyes, fathers screaming in outrage. He didnt enjoy such slaughter. It was a battle well-won for his team, true, but he was a humanitarian above all things. He sought to rule as a God. What kind of God would he be without followers..

"However, within this tale of darkness, a brighter one emerges. Security camera footage leaked just hours ago speaks of a heroic battle between good and evil, and a story of, above all else, sacrifice and redemption. The supposed terrorists, known as LORE and Belial, part of the Apogee Four, were placed at this city only days before the current carnage. LORE's propensity for the dramatic was made clear when his announcement video of his location was broadcast service-wide on the Hyperreal. Security were quick to descend upon the Apogee pair - the supposed leaders of the Apogee Four, Ran-Samot Sako and Marjec Stone, nowhere in sight - and the town was evacuated."

"Many would speak of the coincidence of these events and call foul. However one eye-witness, present at the security station they were incarcerated within, had this to say about the team of surprising heroes."

The video cuts to an Onatan in shabby clothes. He smiles half-heartedly, not sure where to look, and begins talking in a soft, balanced voice. Alexander could recite the script off by heart, and he could even see the ANUBIS brand marked on his forearm. Another convert to his cause. Another poor soul purchased to redemption.

"Yep, I was in prison with them. The two Apogee guys, that robot and the Angel-"

"Aetherin..?" the reporter interrupts.

"Yeah yeah, with the wings. They knew the evacuation would help save the town from those erratics. They had two others with them too, a little Sigurn and a Ghoul, real mean fellow but kind-hearted. The four of them managed to get out of prison, knock out the guards, and take them to a ship - the one I pilotted out of there, at their request. They were kind fellows, real nice guys the lot of 'em. They wanted to save the town. And they knew they weren't gonna get out alive."

The screen cuts back to the reporter, who smiles her fake smile.

"But survive they did. In a research facility not far from the outskirts of town, long abandoned - or so the town suspected - these four heroes engaged in a battle of life and death."

A small window appears to the right of the screen. It has no sound, but the reporter is more than happy to talk everybody through it. It is blurry footage, hard to make out anything concrete, but Alexander was still surprised how much wasn't faked. They almost did appear to be heroes there...

"We see the team fight through the facility, fighting erratics and hoping to stem the tide, already aware of the impending flood of erratic soldiers. Further into the facility, you see them confront the leader of the erratics - none other than a Nonman, the reviled kin of the Exohumans. The creature rears itself, confident in its strength. The Flesh Sigurn, as you can see, risks his very life leaping into the fray to save another Sigurn, the only survivor of this terrible facility and its dark machinations. Meanwhile, LORE communicates with the AI of the facility and commands the release of the erratic army, held in stasis within the facility. The creatures, assumedly only half-way through their dark augmentations, are released dazed and weak, and flood clumsily through the facility. Belial, the Aetherin, fights them off with ease, the creatures still weak from their sudden awakening."

The screen only now goes full screen.

"But here is the real event. The Nonman, furious at the release of its legions earlier than required, rushes the group. You can see the Ghoul of the group debating with the team, and then waving them off. The Sigurn saving his kin, the one creature who may have answers to this horrible event, flees the facility, to ensure the town is safe at last. LORE and Belial both see the need to escape, and accept the Ghouls help with heavy hearts. Then, it happens."

You see the Ghoul, a tide of erratics behind him, rush the Nonman, and begin throwing punches at its face and chest, pummeling the towering giant.

"You see, time and again, the Ghoul throw a flurry of blows at the Nonman. Erratics clawing at his sides, the pain coursing through his broken body, he knows the only way his team can escape is if he distracts them long enough. The Nonman, overwhelmed by the Ghouls bloodlust and faith in his comrades, is pushed back, attempts to escape, and is faced again and again with the intensity of this lone Ghouls violent attack. You see one final blow, the Ghoul physically tearing out the Nonman's throat with his teeth, ripping off its head and rising it to the crowd of stunned erratics."

"But their leaders death does not weaken their lust for violence. Only now, with pinpoint timing, does the Aetherin Belial swoop down on her mechanical wings, and carry a weakened Ghoul out of the facility and into the arms of victory. The erratics, weakened, stunned and confused, turn to the town to satisfy their bloodlust, but find it practically abandoned."

The screen changes suddenly to show a flesh Sigurn standing centre screen. His body is bruised and weak, and he is obviously very tired. He is flanked by two steel Sigurn, bodyguards from Viatga no doubt. He talks, again soft and focussed with his words.

"The Nonman was breeding those erratics, raising an army. By releasing them early, those things were slow and clumsy and allowed everyone in the town to escape in time. They put me on the last ship and flew me out of there. I could see the tide of erratics in the distance, could see those heroes - that's right, I said heroe's! - returning to their own ship. They saved the town, no doubt. You saw the two huge erratics on the video, well, all of them would have been like that if it wasn't for those guys. All of them. I owe them my life."

The video is cut off. Only a picture of the Ghoul remains, now full screen, holding the Nonman head aloft, roaring in victory.

"Who was this Ghoul? How did they learn of this facility? Why was the town of Old Ripley important enough for these make-shift heroes to risk their lives to save? And were we wrong about the morality of two of the most hated terrorists in recent Cradle history? We continue these thoughts tonight on an Inside the Dyson Sphere special; 'Belial and LORE; Traitors or Heroes?' "

The feed cuts off, and Alexander sits in the darkness of the Scales of Judgement bridge. He crosses his arms over his chest, and smiles.

"Release it. It fulfills our needs, although a little more ham-fisted than I'd have liked. Make sure the Onatan is paid, and kill the flesh-Sigurn actor - we can't have him revealing to anybody that he is a fake. Ensure the real captive is ready for questioning soon."

"Yes, Alexander.." Calib, the ships AI, responds.

"And make sure Charybdis gets a fair reward. Not everybody can kill a Nonman. Or lead an army of erratics to destroy a city, half-abandoned or otherwise.."

Bryante's Last Nightmare

It was like every bad dream he’d ever had. That shiver up his spine, as if he was cold. That ache in his bones, as if he was trapped and unable to move. The tightness in his chest, as if he was breathing cold, liquid oxygen. The pinch of his skin, as if a dozen hands had simultaneously dragged him, silent and unable to scream, into a world he was totally and utterly detached from.

Of course, this was no dream.

The Sepsyon sorcery, bringing forth the detached hands of the spirits of the Unreal and forcing them to do the sorcerer’s bidding, had grasped him so completely, their grip so utterly tight and unbreakable, that when the spell had worn off and the singular will keeping the hands in the Real had faded, not only had they returned to the Unreal, but they had dragged poor Bryante with him.

The breach of the barrier separating the two worlds, side by side for all intents and purposes, had sucked the air from his lungs and drained the life from his skin. He was ever so cold and ever so afraid, but found his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, and when he tried to speak, he found the words that he knew, that he had spoken all his life, had no place here.

All around him were buildings that defied reality, and creatures that did significantly worse. The dozen hands that had brought him here were gone, mere spontaneous beings living spontaneous lives in a place that cared not for structured existence. He tried to walk forward, but found the path he was on curved in ways that his legs couldn’t follow. When he tried to run, the air seemed heavy around him, and he quickly began to tire.

Where before he was ignored as some passing fancy, in the way a normal man might ignore a ghost seen only for a second, his continued presence here began to attract creatures of greater permanence within this realm. Those spirits were short lived because they were weak, the passing souls of the deceased who had lived satisfied lives and died old and warm in their sleep – they existed here for hours, maybe days at a push, and where the Sepsyon could call upon these weak, peaceful souls to perform their bidding, their strengths tended to lie in numbers, and one was no stronger, no weaker, than the next. Those whose deaths were more brutal, lives cut short through suffering and agony, they were the real dangers here in the Unreal.

Bryante, for once, knew true fear. A thousand eyes glared at him through the darkness and mist of the Unreal. The creatures that began to slink through the fog were deformed and monstrous – a one-eyed beast with three long, thin arms, grasping wildly; a beast with five heads mounted on a tiny body, each mouth screeching soundlessly in pain; a giant slug-like creature, suspended on a dozen hands, with fat oozing arms pulling it along the floor. They began closing in on Bryante, these abortions of reality, the experiments of a braver, less noble existence.

A single voice echoed through the Unreal, powerful enough to be heard between planets, if such distance meant anything here. It was soundless and without feature, but he could feel it, as a shooting pain through his skull. The creatures turn and flee, exploiting the shifting geometry to vanish in mere moments, lost in the distance and the fog beyond Bryante’s sight. He tries to breathe a sigh of relief, but his lungs are still tight, now getting tighter. He manages a few meager steps before another shot of pain brings him crashing to his knees. And then…

Solace.

Tranquility.

He feels no pain.

He feels… nothing.

He feels his body slowly pulled to its feet. Gentle movement, as his arms fall flat to his side, and his head slowly raises. His smile is hollow, empty, and on the inside, he knows he should be afraid. The strings moving his limbs should frighten him. And the face staring back at him should terrify him.

He couldn’t even focus on the creature before him. Not for lack of trying, more, the creature seemed immutable. If it existed at all, it seemed to exist in all realities, taking every form and no form at once. A dozen set of arms stretched from a dozen different torso’s, as a dozen set of legs held it aloft. Even its face was a mis-match of a thousand different features, all with that same empty smile staring back at Bryante. He found his eyes couldn’t focus, he was always looking away, and then forced to look back. He felt dazed, sick to his stomach, but that soothing wave of peace kept everything hidden, in a place he couldn’t mentally reach.

YOU SMELL LIKE HIM

The voice was all at once familiar to Bryante. Although it hadn’t made a sound, hadn’t spoken a single word, it was clear in his mind. It spoke from his memories, taking the voice of his family, his friends, the victims he’d left dying at the side of the road. The creature abused Bryantes memories in a vague attempt to talk to him, stripping them into their component pieces and reorganizing them to get its message across. He couldn’t reply, couldn’t force his throat to move even if he tried, but found that a reply wasn’t needed.

HEARTLESS ONE. SOUNDLESS ONE. BREAKER OF DEALS.

The creature raised itself on its numerous legs, standing easily 12 feet tall, and towering over small, petty Bryante.

YOU HAVE BEEN TOUCHED BY HIS PRESENSE.

It stretched out its mismatched arms, and slowly began to encompass Bryante, wrapping him in a blurry, unfocussed darkness to which he didn’t even try to escape.

HIS TAINT HAS STAINED YOUR SOUL. YOU… WILL TASTE LIKE HIM, TOO. YOU WILL GUIDE HIM TO ME…

Where he expected the empty smile of the creature to open, he was surprised to find the mouth actually sat beneath the head, a wide maw opening on his throat, tilting back the limb that he once confused for a head. The eyes continued to blink aimlessly as they fell from view. He felt again the sensation of a dozen hands locking tight on his skin, but these were harder, sharper, with a significantly more nefarious purpose.

CIMMARON. CIMMARON. CCCIIIMMMAAARRROOONNN!

He knew he should be scared. But found himself unable to scream. Unable to even fear. And that quiet, hollow grin remained on his face, as he was stripped down to the bone by a creature with a hunger utterly alien and endless..

What replaced Bryante still had that empty grin on its face. It turned, walking through the Unreal with a ruthless confidence. Nothing dared approach it now. It slowly closed the second mouth just below its head, and began searching for a way out of the Unreal…

The Ties of Fate

Bryante sprinted across the room at full pace, breathless with aching limbs, pushing past the guards in his way. The bloodless 'virgins' immediately moved out of his way, but the more experienced, those with more marks on their environment suits, they stayed put, forced him to go round. His visor was steamed up, his oxygen tubes strained and stretched out of shape, by the time he got to the entrance into the newly-christened Throne Room. He didn’t have time to marvel upon the bloody trophies mounted either side of the wall of this once-grand hall, once filled with Cendran elites and dignitaries, now a dusty shadow exposed to the elements – the ceiling above sported a large hole, an explosive reminder of the trouble they went through to claim this territory.

The Bandit King looked around the room as if bored of the proceedings. Although he’d never use the title himself – he was far too proud to refer to himself as a Bandit, and far too humble to refer to himself as a King – he was seated on a throne that caught the attention of everybody in the room. It was a mess of melded steel and cracked plastic, forged into a throne by sheer force. The blacksmiths of their crew spent weeks working on this single item, foregoing all other jobs. The Bandit King had had them whipped and marked for their time-wasting, and ordered them back to more important work immediately. Of the dozen spikes and shafts of steel that jutted out from the back of the throne, almost every one had the environmentally-sealed helmet of a single Cendran Archivist, their races highest ranking citizens, mounted for all to see. A savage display of power. Only two remained free of such gore – a middle-set spike, which would leer over the Kings right hand, and the top-most spoke, sitting above all others, mounted high over the chair. They were reserved.

The Bandit King seemed immune to the noise and commotion before his throne, as Bryante fell prostrate before him. He rested his chin idly on his clenched fist, glancing up at the dusty sky visible through what once was only ceiling. A storm was coming. He could feel it in his bones. He glanced from person to person in the room, seeing nothing but Cendran environment suits and blank-faced visors staring back. Each customised just enough to be different, just enough without compromising the security of their poor immune systems, their weak bodies.

Bryante was silent all this time, catching his breath, forming his story, patient and penitent before his King. His suit was scuffed, soiled. The pitched combat in the town of Boundary was rough, and to outside eyes, he looks like he’d seen the worst of it. What they wouldn’t know, however, is that Bryante fled as soon as the first shots were fired, and kept fleeing as soon as the combat looked to be a loss. A crazy sword-maiden challenging him to a duel, and a Sorcerer summoning ghostly masses to drag the unsuspecting into the void? He didn’t sign up for that! He sighed deeply and raised his head, to see if his King had even noticed him. The voices around the room were getting louder, looking for answers or results from his latest raid, but he remained silent.

His silence was soon rewarded. The Bandit King lifted himself up from his slouched position, glanced over the room. They were criminals, thugs, bandits, almost every one. Used to taking what they want, not waiting. And the less information Bryante offered, the more worked up they got. They formed their own obscene arguments and scenarios in their heads, and had the audacity to simply shout them out into his court, as if making them real simply by uttering them. The arguments ranged from Cendran military action, to Ghoul infestation, to the arrival of an entire TOWER Colonisation fleet. All of them ridiculous, all of them haunting the dreams of every bandit living on Cendra, a haven for people like them.

As two bandits looked to come to blows over their opposing scenarios – one sure an Apaex patrol had killed every last citizen of a Ghoul city not far from here, as his friends friends brother had seen an Apaex warship not two days ago; the other, positive a Ghoul legion had been found not 20 miles from their very position, loaded with Apaex gear after a victory over an Apaex unit, as confirmed by an Uncles cousins friend a few days back – the Bandit King raised his hand, demanded silence in the most regal way he knew how. He may not have believed he was anything equating to a King, but he knew that’s what they responded to.

“How about we let Bryante talk...” commanded the Bandit King, who then slouched back into his chair. Bryante stood, cleared his throat.

“Well boss, three days ago, we caught sight of a ship landing hard not far from here, near that dusty vlieg-town, Boundary. Turns out a guy had escaped that prison,Dante-01, and had fled here to get away from his pursuers – in a Dante marked ship, of all things! He fled into the town, bunkered down with that Doc Meyers and his family. Pretty big reward, we thought. Clean money. Single guy, how hard can it be? Turns out, the Doc was a real do-gooder, had to rough up his family, still he wouldn’t give the guy up. By the time we got the info, he was long gone, Inhert knows where. So we’re patrolling the area the last few days, a guy by himself in this heat couldn’ta gone far, right? Well, what’s our luck, we gets a report of another ship in the area, one of our scouts shoot it down. No way there could ‘a been survivors in that mess, so two look around, while the other two come fetch the rest of us to take a look. Well...” Bryante shuffles nervously, aware of how bad the next part’s going to sound, especially with so many higher-ranks around him.

“Well... we get there and our guys are gone. Totally gone. Takes us a short while to find ‘em, but find ‘em we do. Dead. Whatever survived, survived well enough to take down two of my guys and high-tail it out of there. We rush Boundary to see what we find, but the storm slows us. Me and 20 men get there as the Sun sets and the storm kicks in, and what do you know, the guys are holed up in the bar there, The Trigger Finger with that straight-and-narrow Seb. We call them out, and fuck it, if they ain’t got a whole army there. Snipers and sorcerers and all sorts coming out of the woodwork, Seb’s finally done it and fucked us over like he’s been saying for so long. Well you know me boss, I stayed till the last man was down – “a few laughs from the men around him causes Bryante’s voice to falter, but he continues, “– and fled when things were looking rough. I don’t know who they were, but they were packing heat. Musta been travelling with the first guy, they had to be, no two ships fly that close together this time a’year, especially in this dead-end hole. I think...”

With a raise of his hand, the Bandit King silences Bryante. He crosses his arms tight over his chest.

“You’re not here to *think* Bryante.” More laughs. Bryante slinks back, fully aware of his position in the crew. “Forget this... this... *bullshit* with theDante-01 escapee. If you want to be a snitch to make a quick credit, be my guest, but don’t you dare return here with your ‘clean’ money. You said there was a Sorcerer? What did he look like?”

Bryante is now visibly panicked. The Bandit King is not a large man, nor is he especially strong or agile, but he was well known for his incredible brutality. Bryante tries his hardest to speak loud and clear, but ends up merely whispering “I don’t know...”

“What was that Bryante?!” The Bandit King now stands from his throne, and makes his way down the three steps of his raised dais. His voice was a roar, echoing down the corridors of this dusty old building.

“I don’t know!” Bryante squeals, terrified. The Bandit King now stands next to Bryante, who has once again fallen to his knees and leans so their faces are next to each others, the faceplates on their environment suits practically touching. “Cimmaronis, please don’t hurt me...” whispers Bryante, a coward in the face of his King. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I didn’t see them. They attacked from the bar; they were attacking out of every window. A few even ambushed us from behind, they were everywhere. Please don’t Cimmaronis, I’ll do better next time, I’ll do better...”

The room was silent, and Bryante’s whispers may have well been screams. Few dared mock or laugh, for fear of inciting their Kings rage. They all knew that, in the same situation, they would be equally as scared.

“Make sure that you do...” And Cimmaronis, the Bandit King, stands straight. He walks past Bryante, as if the weeping bandit wasn’t even there, as if the whole scenario hadn’t even taken place. He turns to one of his men near the door, and places a hand on his shoulder. “Take Bryante, and a team of scouts. You go to that village and you search, quietly. Observe from afar if you have to. Find their ship, what remains of it, and get their tracking number, their serial number, anything we can use to trace it. A dozen men escaped from Dante-01, and if there’s a chance, even a tiny chance that he is back here...”

Cimmaronis sighs deeply. “I can’t take that risk.” He leaves the room, and looks down to the arm panel on his suit; sat there, mostly scratched away sit three numbers –191 – he scratches at them once more, away from prying eyes, away from expectations and demands. For a moment he is nothing but a lost Cendran on an old ship with a formidable master and mentor by his side. His reverie is soon broken. Soon after, the other bandits in the room begin to leave, one by one, until only Bryante remains, quivering on the floor until the shakes stop wracking his body and the tears stop flowing from his eyes.

He releases the clasps on his helmet, and removes it, setting it down beside him. He brings his Human hands to his Human eyes and wipes the tears from his Human face.