It was a communique from the Kingdom of Taryia.

Which was immediately suspicious. Only under dire circumstances did they reach out to the Republic, and not vice versa.

And indeed, the circumstances were dire.

It was a report detailing the action of the dreadnought Krra'harr'ti'om on the Union-Assembly border. She was ironically accompanied by Coalition battleship and, unfortunately, a Republic battlecruiser who had identified herself as Alexandra.

The ramifications of this were drastic. If this was indeed true, Buren had -- to put it lightly -- diverted from her assigned mission, but no one in High Command was foolish enough even to consider that she would partake in such an extreme action without due justification.

"The Hand of Her Majesty Krra'harr'ti'om overviewed and moderated proceedings during a confrontation between United Planetary Republic Naval Asset 9101 Alexandra and Coalition of Interior Systems Federal Starfleet Unit Designation 117-1814-873 Walton," the communique read, "during which a Union task force entered close-fire range and began the mass-deployment of drones. As of right now, none of the present parties have engaged."

Why did the Coalition have to get involved, Lyctove thought sourly, envisioning the stacks of paperwork he would have to fill out to open proceedings with the Republic's historically-antagonizing neighbor.

This came at what was likely the worst possible time. With Operation Sentinel finalized and undergoing preparations to enter a terminal stage of implementation, Republic leadership and logistical capabilities were currently being strained to their breaking points. They thus were poised to collapse should something unexpected occur.

Like this.

However -- as agreed most of High Command -- maintaining order over Operation Sentinel had to take a back seat compared to whatever the fuck was going on in Carok.

Lyctove had seven hours before High Command convened, this time with a dozen members of the Major Council present. The Council itself, both Major and Minor, had scheduled to end Session nearly a week ago, but some probably-illegal presidential string-pulling, along with a sizable helping of legislative support, allowed Lyctove to extend Session for another month. Side effects of this have already included several Councilmen and women submitting some highly indecorous complaints, most of which found a home in Lyctove's paper shredder.

Expecting queues of angry Councilmembers outside his office, Lyctove gave orders to his guard to block entry for anyone, with the sole exception being members of High Command. An unintended side-effect of this was that his aides had — for reasons the president had yet to understand — cleared his entire schedule, meaning that he had seven hours in which there was absolutely nothing to do.

Except for think, he supposed.

History was a required course in all stages of the Republic's curriculum. Past administrations had indulged in the power vested in the presidential office to censor the majority of atrocities committed by the Republic, acts that Lyctove had vehemently opposed, and now worked to reverse. For years then -- decades, even -- the citizenry of the Republic had lived blissfully unaware of the destructive actions perpetrated in the name of stability. In the core, it was even worse, with the media frequently prohibited from reporting on the actual condition of Paragon's natural resource deposits.

It was fascinating -- almost like a thought experiment -- to consider how history would be taught in a hundred or a thousand years. Would the Republic be viewed as an evil entity, subjugating others merely out of a hunger to subjugate? Or would the truth be even more hideously warped, with the Republic portrayed as a savior to the peoples of Carok, erasing the buried darkness?

Or would the truth be allowed to flourish?

A necessary evil. It was a statement rarely uttered anymore, but it encapsulated... everything. Perfectly.

Seven hours.

Seven hours was... enough time to get some more coffee. 

He had run out, after all.

Lyctove sighed and rose from the comfort of his office chair. With a wave of his hand, the door to his office slid open. His guard snapped to attention immediately, but Lyctove quickly ordered the man to remain at ease - that being said, Lyctove did not object when the guard stepped into place behind him. He wasn't insane.

After all, he planned to leave the Capitol. Not only because the best coffee shop was seventeen kilometers out of Allos City Central, but because he was the president. He couldn't preside over a nation if he didn't know the people. 

The guard, upon hearing Lyctove's plan, elected to switch his small pulse pistol for a submachine gun. Thankfully, he only protested once. Lyctove was tired of convincing people. He could do what he damn well wanted to do. 

His guard - Kennan was his name, and he had dutifully served Lyctove since his inception as President -- offered to chauffeur Lyctove in the presidential hovercar, but Lyctove respectfully declined. He would be just fine walking. 

At that, Kennan did demur. Dissent ran high in the Republic - even though this was the Core, there were still plenty of people who were... dissatisfied with Lyctove's presidency. 

Lyctove left the Capitol building with two plain-clothed members of the 14th Orbital Insertion Unit escorting him, concealing pulse pistols beneath folds in heavy greatcoats to weather Endura's freezing afternoons. Kennan retained his submachine gun, and Lyctove himself wore a parka, which made him indistinguishable from any other citizen. 

And so the president found himself strolling through the bustling streets of Allos City Central. 

Thankfully, no one seemed to recognize him.

Compared to Oscomn -- Lyctove's homeworld -- Endura was bustling with activity, and not all of it was good. Rioting, for example, pervaded every corner of the ecumenopolis, even up to the gates of the capitol. Even Allos City Central hadn't escaped the deconstruction scourge. Yet not all of it was bad, either. Allos City Shipyards was still visible, even on ground level, peeking through a pair of massive stratoscrapers. Resonance was still under construction and the first of the Faron-class cruisers had been laid, sparking a new era of starcraft production. The Hydrostacks just barely showed themselves over the peaks of the tallest buildings, verdent and lush with a full harvest. 

But the displeasure among the populace was undeniable. 

"Kennan?" 

"Sir." 

Lyctove glanced over. "What's your opinion on my presidency?" 

Kennan didn't respond immediately. He walked in silence, scanning the cold, graffiti-covered autocrete walls, fiddling with the barrel cover on his submachine gun.

 "It is not my place to answer that question, sir," he eventually said. "I am obligated to obey you, regardless of my opinion."

"You're 'obligated'?" 

Kennan nodded slightly.

"I'm ordering you to answer my question, then."

...

"Well?" 

"I was raised in the Rim," Kennan finally replied. "I... I guess I'm disappointed... that so little has been done."

"That's it? Disappointed?" 

Kennan nodded again. 

Lyctove snorted. "I'm disappointed. I was born on Oscomn. You must be furious."

No response.

"My wife was born on the Rim," Lyctove continued. "On Sierra. Lived there for nineteen years before she got a ride to the core after passing the MEDIEX." 

At that, Kennan's eyebrows shot up. "Impressive." 

"Not particularly," the President responded. "It took her seven tries."

"My sister tried a dozen times. I tried it once. Most kids on the Rim try."

"Really?" 

"It's the only way out."

"Out of the Rim?"

"Yes, sir."

Lyctove raised an eyebrow, and Kennan relented.

"None of the other entrance exams are available - well, they are, but they cost a fortune on the Rim. So everyone tries for the medical exam, even though they know they won't pass. All you need for the MEDIEX is a sheet of paper and a pencil. So you either pass the MEDIEX, or you enlist, and - I mean no offense, but no one in the Rim wants to serve the Republic. I didn't at first."

"And yet you did anyways."

"Yes, sir. I did." 

"Why?" 

"Because I couldn't pass the MEDIEX," was the immediate response. 

Kennan sighed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his parka. "Plenty of people kill themselves over failing the MEDIEX. I figured that... well, as much as I hated the Republic at the time, I figured that enlisting was the better option." 

Lyctove greeted a couple on the street who recognized him. He weaved through the legs of a police-modified bipedal RED suit, slowly realizing what Kennan had actually said. 

"So... you don't want to be here?" Lyctove inquired after the RED suit had thundered past.

"Y - well, it's more complicated than that." Another RED, part of a riot control column that was growing in intensity. Kennan glanced around nervously, spotting two more REDs plodding down the street, with tear gas and beanbag guns taking the place of missile launchers and autocannons. "When I served, I - I - off the street." 

Lyctove glanced up, spotting the REDs alongside a host of riot police, advancing down the street and coming to blows with a handful of rioters - those who possessed a level of courage which bordered on stupidity.

"Wait for the line to pass," Kennan ordered. 

One of the rioters hurled something - a firework. It ignited on the hull of a RED suit and screeched off into the night sky, bursting into a multi-colored flare. The RED discharged a water cannon in response, laced with a liquid irritant that instantly vaporized, blowing huge clouds of tear gas into the agitators as well as swamping them in jets of freezing water. 

A second RED stepped forward, stooping down and unleashing a barrage of tear gas canisters.

Kennan made his move. "Let's roll," he said, taking point as Lyctove and his retinue followed. "Now." He ducked through a low arch into a small back-alley. 

The rest of the journey was walked in quiet. 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mark missed.

The marine ducked the stunstick with ease, and Mark found the muzzle of a pulse rifle pointed squarely between his eyes. Desperately, out of pure instinct rather than any skill in combat, he swung the stunstick straight up and slammed the volatile power core of the improvised weapon directly into the tertiary preheater coils of the marine's rifle.

In half a second, the power core's internal temperature spiked massively, skyrocketing past what the tiny device's heat dispersion systems could manage and inducing a near-instantaneous meltdown. It flashed briefly before erupting into a bright fireball, blowing the metal rod it had been attached to into smithereens as the pulse rifle spun off wildly.

Mark, momentarily stunned by the fireball, sprung into action when he caught sight of the marine's armored gauntlet flying towards his face.

He hastily ducked the swing but took a second jab straight to the chest. Something cracked -- probably a rib -- as he flew farther than he thought humanly possible, crashing into the far wall groaning in pain. 

Right next to the pulse rifle. 

Without thinking, he grabbed the rifle and pulled the trigger, realizing his mistake far too late. 

The damaged tertiary coil of the weapon proceeded to overheat, blasting out an absurdly massive foot-long laser of pulse. The beam, several thousand times more potent than what was the norm for pulse rifles, melted the marine's chestplate to slag before punching a gaping hole in the side of the shuttle.

Before Mark could react, the rifle unleashed an ear-splitting screech. Depressurization of the shuttle yanked the pulse rifle out of Mark's grasp - which was a good thing, as the rifle's pulse containment failed, and the weapon exploded a few seconds later. 

The medic had remained utterly shell-shocked. His stun pistol had remained undrawn, and a hand hovered over the command tablet for the life support shell that shrouded June's limp body, keeping her in a harmless state of "flat stasis" until a diagnosis could be performed. 

Mark, for his part, stumbled up to the dazed medic, confiscated his sidearm and -- feeling only slightly guilty, all he wanted to do was help -- discharged the weapon point-blank into the man's forehead.

Clutching his ribs, he slammed a fist against the kill switch on June's stasis tube.

"Wake up, June," he grumbled, digging through the medicine cabinet for painkillers.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Carson picked his way through the carnage, slogging through pools of blood and fragments of obliterated ballistic shields. Not a single marine was spared - not that they would have surrendered anyway. They had fought to the bitter end.

Not to say that the fight was over. That was made grimly clear as Carson stumbled into the hangar.

Frantic shouting was followed by the northernmost entrance collapsing in a choking cloud of dust as a colossal battlesuit plowed through the doorjamb. Four wrist-mounted autocannons cut down a dozen of Carson's militia before the rest could scramble behind cover. Carson was roughly forced down by the armored gauntlet of a Shock Trooper - LC-1019 took a step forward and raised its rifle, blasting a trio of rounds at the battlesuit.

Carson stared in horror as all three sparked off.

LC-1019, however, barely missed a beat. Before its discarded rifle had even hit the floor, it was charging with a writhing plasma blade protruding from each arm. The battlesuit responded in kind, unsheathing a knife the size of Carson's leg, which itself became enveloped in a field of plasma.

Electricity crackled as the two warriors clashed.

Carson, breaking himself out of shellshock, ran for Tempest, tossing his projector rifle aside and dragging Isa with him. Saj'ish was only a few steps behind, firing wildly with his mag pistol.

Another battlesuit erupted out of the floor, even larger than the last, wrenching apart the metal plates like a candy wrapper. A metal sphere -- a nanite hive -- had welded itself to the battlesuit's shoulder, spilling millions of nanobots across the war machine's armor plates and attempting to wreak havoc within the servo-motors and fiber-bundle control nodes. The battlesuit, however, hardly seemed to notice, planting a half-dozen discharge vanes into the floor and unleashing the raw power of two shouldered electricity cannons. 

It turned to face Carson, and the businessman froze.  

The nose of his cruiser crashed through the hangar bay doors.

For a moment, Carson thought he was hallucinating. Tempest had been berthed outside of the station, no?

Well, yes. She just wasn't anymore. 

The station's atmosphere vented for a good second before shielding could compensate. As for the battlesuit - well, it collapsed in a smoking heap by Carson's feet, literally torn in half and spilling coolant all over the El'saas's suit.

The point-defense cannon responsible swiveled with the precision that only a computer could provide, spitting a blistering line of 60-millimeter armor-piercing tracer rounds as was the Union's standard. The second battlesuit simply ceased to exist, obliterated in less than a second, although LC-1019's corpse lay broken nearby.

And in a second, the hangar erupted.

The entire nose of Tempest lit up like lights during Sola'ris. Carson's scattered forces hastily retreated, stumbling up Tempest's loading ramp under the deafening roar of a dozen point-defense cannons.

Carson found himself on the bridge of Tempest in short order. "Helm!" he barked, taking a standing position on the command deck. "Get my spaceship back into space!" 

"Yes, sir!"

"Torpedo launch alert!" Saj'ish screamed, having been pressed into service as Carson's tactical officer following the untimely death of his previous one.

With her nose still rammed through the Research Station's hangar bay doors, all plasma shielding congealed around the aft of Tempest. Thankfully, Union torpedoes weren't the most advanced, and their limited maneuverability proved worthless against Tempest's fire control. As with most artifacts in the Union's navy, guided ordinance remained at a subpar level of development.

Unfortunately, that didn't particularly matter when it came to the Geofrie-class responsible for the torpedoes, which was probably the least-technologically-advanced brick of steel currently still flying in the multiverse and was also covered in forty super-heavy artillery batteries - absurd even by Union standards. It would erase Tempest, and that was something Carson hoped to avoid.

Tempest's retrograde thrusters rumbled to life, incinerating anyone in the hangar which was still alive in dazzling cones of fire. Steel melted in seconds as the cruiser inched backward, flashing blue as cannon rounds hammered her shields. Tempest's damage control parties worked tirelessly to effectuate repairs on the magnetic field generators, which rapidly overloaded from the incoming ordinance, braving the scorching temperatures of the shield deck and the risk of being incinerated by a sudden plasma discharge. 

It wasn't enough. The Geofrie-class blazed with cannon fire, slamming shell after shell into the plasma barrier, eventually overwhelming the laudable efforts of Carson's damage control teams. The first shell to impact the hull did so a split second after Tempest's vectored armor had sprung into action, sparking off and detonating on the siding of the Symbos III Research Station.

"Get us out of here, helm!" Carson ordered, wincing as a muffled explosion erupted somewhere below him. "Set course for the Tares Cluster!"

As the thruster fire flared blue, thousands of drones spilled out of the Geofrie's launching decks. They coalesced into one enormous mass before diving for Tempest, barely heeding the wall of defensive firepower that met them.

"Helm!" Carson shouted.

And with a flash, Tempest was gone, leaving nothing but warp particles behind.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ortaan R'sota found himself in an unfortunately familiar position. Restrained in medbay by a Corbyial cast, being probed by an -- admittedly newer -- medical automaton and with a grizzled, xenophobic detective seated next to him.

Jarik declined to meet the Toreas's eyes. He kept his gaze firmly locked on the floor, cradling a mug of steaming coffee.

"Where are we?"

Jarik didn't respond.

"Are you going to ignore me?"

"Yes," Jarik responded bluntly.

R"sota mentally shrugged. If he wouldn't talk, so be it.

The woman was seated nearby. He didn't remember her name, but he recognized her face. He also recognized the man she was sitting beside — Filion. The captain of the Axion, the man who had saved his life, and the man who had then proceeded to disregard his authority.

Granted, he doubted he had much authority anymore.

"Where are we?" he asked again.

"Alexandra," the woman responded. "Republic battlecruiser."

R"sota's Sysa — a flat, sensory organ shaped like a crest on the bulbous head of a Toreas — trembled slightly, to Lyise's mild amusement. "How the fuck did we get here?" he asked.

"Good question." 

She was exhausted. That much was plainly obvious. R"sota decided not to push it - even though, he mentally noted, she was literally sitting on a bed.

With little else to do, he rested his head against the hard mattress of his medical bed and immediately passed out.