Allegiance

“You cannot know what I know, but know this: a great storm brews in the west. When it has passed, nothing will ever be the same.” - Istvaan Shogaatsu, to an unnamed INO reporter, circa 102 EST

“They’re kind of cute when they’re that small”, Hamish Ramatakhlan muttered, warily eyeing the old man as he engaged in a childlike game of tug-of-war with a pint-sized Slaver pup, the knee-height animal thrashing away at a length of braided rope and trying to wrench it from Shogaatsu’s grip. “To think, what you’re doing right now is training it to tear at Matari flesh…”

Istvaan was unfazed by the poignant remark. He hurled the soggy chew-toy clear across the back room of the Guiding Hand, prompting the excitedly snickering pup to give wild chase in arcing leaps and bounds nearly two metres off the floor-plates. Triumphantly it seized the toy and shook it wildly, retreating to its plush bedding and curling up in a ball of black straw-like fur to further dismantle its hard-won prey.

Ever since the rogue Inquisitor Wahpekute Assiniboine slew his first loyal animal companion, the old man had become withdrawn and sullen. The ever-looming threat of that genetically enhanced killing machine, now known to crave vengeance for the inhuman enhancement process that gave him twisted new life at Shogaatsu’s behest, was certainly affecting him - but not nearly as much as being without a Slaver hound by his side. He would likely have remained in that morose state, had it not been for his brother - now largely recovered from his run-in with a thousand odd Jericho Fraction autocannon shells - who secretly acquired the pup from the Shogaatsu family kennels in Agil and surprised Istvaan with it as a gift. The change was immediate: that sly flicker, that joie-de-vivre absent from his eyes for months, had returned.

Hamish stood to his feet, and smoothed the creases in his tailored suit. It was clear Shogaatsu was too involved with his new eighty-four-toothed plaything, and the Minmatar decided it was high time to spend some quality time ogling the bar girls working the dance hall. As he left the back room, Guiding Hand operative Uuve Savisaalo followed him with suspicious eyes.

“So, he doesn’t remember anything?”

Istvaan smiled. “Indeed. The lag time between backup clones means that Mr. Ramatakhlan has no recollection of his run-in with Admiral Trevize, or his discovery of the nature of our implant… if the poor fool hadn’t gone all dramatic and blown his brains out in that hospital, we might be in a fair bit of trouble. The Mobius implant’s effects will carry through to all his future clones.”

“And his medical records?”

”Doctored accordingly to erase all references to the Mobius loop.”

Savisaalo half-smirked. “Everything goes just right for you, doesn’t it?”

Shogaatsu allowed himself a smile. “Let’s hope that it stays that way.”

Foppishly running his fingers through his hair, Uuve Savisaalo made for the door to the dance hall. “I think I’ll go make sure the newest member of the Social Club doesn’t get too hands-on with Shaheen and the other girls. Want anything to drink while I’m there?”

Istvaan shook his head, and the operative disappeared, leaving him alone with the cackling Slaver pup. “Anubis, dawaj!” he shouted over the muffled din of the club, uttering the command to retrieve. The onyx-maned pup ignored him completely, and he sighed in exasperation, rubbing his suddenly throbbing temples - training a young Slaver hound was often a process that took years to hammer down.

“Everything goes just right for you, doesn’t it…”

He spun around in surprise, the voice repeating Savisaalo’s comment catching him completely off guard, spoken as though right next to his ear. The back room was still completely devoid of anyone other than himself and the animal. The voice did not come from the intercom speakers.

“Why do you suppose that is?” Now the old man stood bolt upright. His head pounded like a Brutor tribal drum band, and his expression became stone still. The voice was not coming from outside, but from within. It was the voice from so long ago.

“Why do you suppose, everyone around you acquiesces to your every request?” His heart raced, not with fear but excitement. It had been nearly a decade now. There was a time when it spoke to him often, guiding his hand. Somehow, he always knew it would return.

“Ring-a-ling ding.” He jumped, startled, as his desktop communicator began to chime loudly not one second after the disembodied intonation. He sat before it, hesitating for a moment before accepting the inbound call. Greeting him was the wizened face of an old friend.

“I’ll be damned”, he muttered. “Khoryam, you fossil!”

Khoryam Muhammad was a House Sarum noble. The two had not spoken for the better part of two years, not since the decapitation of House Sarum during the championships that saw Emperor Doriam’s eventual rise to power. He was also the de-facto husband of Nihkol Sarum, Shogaatsu’s one-time lover. His mind raced: what possible connection could this noble have to the whispers from beyond?

Muhammad leaned closer to his screen, squinting. “You look different, my old friend. New set of eyes?” There’s that Amarr word-fencing again, Istvaan mused.

“Just contact lenses, Khoryam. I’m still me.”

“Indeed you are. I must congratulate you on your recent endeavour. The Lady spoke of it to me, though truly she had no need to, what with it being broadcast on every news-net there is. So much for maintaining a low profile?”

Istvaan’s eyes went wide as saucers. There was only one individual Muhammad would refer to as the Lady. So she was alive.

“She wishes an audience with you”, Khoryam continued, “which is the primary reason for this communiqué. That said it is good to see your face after so long. Nihkol speaks of you often.”

“How is she?”

“With child. I’d have her contact you directly, but…”

Istvaan resumed where Khoryan left off. “But openly associating with a known terrorist might cast the wrong light upon the House. I understand. When shall I get under way?”

“Immediately. You will travel to planet Penance 161 in the Curse region. There is a prison camp there. Oh… and the Lady has made a special request of you for this journey. She wishes to see the Chorus of Angels for herself, as well as he who commands it.”

Damn. Travelling into the heart of Angel Cartel controlled territory was one thing; liable to get one shot at, enslaved, or simply raped and mutilated to death on the bridge of your former ship. But doing so in a warship worth more than the combined wealth of entire alliances…

Now was not the time for arguments. “I understand.”

Shadows of metal bars intersecting her hunched silhouette, former Canoness Rolette en Bilal crouched in the corner of her dimly lit detention cell, mumbling incoherently and rocking back and forth on her heels. It had been months since the Battle of Wirashoda, months since her plot against the Shogaatsu family began to unravel and her deception of Jericho Fraction was uncovered. With her good name in the Sisterhood irrevocably stained by her indiscretion with the younger Shogaatsu and the numerous deaths she conspired to bring about, she knew she had nowhere to turn to. The stress of having her work’s life undone by one run-in with the old man had been particularly detrimental to her mental health, or so learned the unfortunate Jericho cell guard first assigned to watch her: the mad woman took to shrieking vicious curses and pelting him with her offal whenever the opportunity presented itself. Suffice it to say, no guards were posted in the cell room any longer, and en Bilal had suffered three long months of solitary confinement.

Her mind burned with rage. The only thoughts she could muster were those of cutting, burning, shooting, savaging and mangling the Caldari criminal. She would not even speak when interrogated by Jade Constantine herself, refusing legal counsel, psychological aid, and even personal hygiene products. Her incarceration was no longer so much for her crimes, as it was for her own safety and the safety of those around her.

The keypad next to the cell’s outer door chimed, and en Bilal rose from her foetal position. By now, she had memorized her daily feeding times, and this intrusion was off schedule by hours. The door quietly opened, flooding the cell with light from the corridor beyond, and en Bilal thought she glimpsed a tall, lanky form slink into the shadow in the corner of the room. The door closed as silently as it opened, and she blinked repeatedly, trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind. This wouldn’t be the first isolation-induced hallucination she had experienced.

“It is inhuman, what he’s done to you…” The hiss startled her. So it wasn’t a delusion.

She probed the dark with narrowed eyes. “Have you brought me anything to eat?”

“Better… I have brought you vengeance.”

With those words, a tiny slip of paper came fluttering through the cell bars. As en Bilal hesitantly picked it up, Wahpekute Assiniboine slipped unseen from the cell, his still valid Jericho Fraction access card locking the door securely behind him. The ex-Canoness held the slip of paper to the dim light fixture in the ceiling. The writing was jagged, as though scribed with a pen held in a clenched fist. She mouthed the words silently at first, and then repeated them to make sure.

“Istvaan Shogaatsu commands the Chorus of Angels, the last surviving Imperial Apocalypse class warship of the Starkmanir genocide fleet. Inform the Republic.”

Frantically, clawing at her cheek with her untrimmed fingernails, she began pounding her empty food tray against the cell bars. “Guard!” she shrieked, “I WANT TO SEE A GUARD NOW!”

The steady hum of the Chorus of Angels’ massive tertiary reactor permeated even the walls of the slave quarters some hundred and fifty metres away. Some of the slave engineers found the sound soothing, almost sedative - but not the slave named Buthus, who sat for the third night in a row with his hands over his ears, waiting for exhaustion to spirit him away to sleep. The tattoo of the Mamet five-hundred upon his wrist, he angrily kicked at the flimsy pillow upon his bedspread, sending it careening into the opposite bunk.

“I try to fucking sleep!” roared the burly mass of muscle curled up on the woefully inadequate bunk, his tan legs hanging off the edge. The Brutor’s name - if one can call a slave registration number a name - was 6619 as evidenced by his brand, though the few crew that dared talk to him simply referred to him as Sixty-Six.

“I don’t know how you can get to sleep with this constant noise.” Some great honour this turned out to be. Buthus sourly recalled the words of his assigned taskmaster, crowing gleefully of his pride in serving aboard an Imperial class vessel. Indeed, the amenities made life more tolerable here - this was no filthy shit-caked slave pen like those commonly found on Amarr commercial vessels. The quarters, while spartan, were clean; the crew, even the lowliest of slaves, were kept well fed and provided medical care when necessary, rather than simply allowed to die or put down once their usefulness had been impeded by injury. Buthus heard that the comparatively liberal treatment he and the other slaves received were largely in part due to a foreign captain, a Caldari who had a hand in their placement aboard this majestic warship, and who insisted upon a certain degree of humane treatment. Still, they were slaves, and of that there were daily reminders; any attempt to escape would be met with stern and likely final punishment.

Klaxons roared throughout the ship, and Sixty-Six bolted upward, smashing his forehead into the bunk directly above him. Unleashing a stream of profanity in his native tongue, the fierce bald-headed Brutor drove his fist into the upper bunk, only managing to hurt himself further. Buthus eyed his none-too-bright cabin mate with an expression of quiet contempt and pity.

In their brief time since being quartered together, the two had developed something of a love-hate relationship. The educated, philosophically inclined and thoroughly pro-Amarr Buthus clashed jarringly with Sixty-Six, a multi-generational breeder slave with ideas of freedom, first brought aboard in Agil shortly after the Battle of Wirashoda. While Buthus worked as a reactor engineer, the half-blind Sixty-Six was tasked with manning the capacitor injector, a fairly brainless task that involved using a pulley to heft large power cells into their loading chamber; one ordinarily performed by machines, but aboard the Chorus of Angels - in many ways an ancient floating anachronism - one that had to be borne upon his muscle-bound shoulders. It was one of the few tasks that the Brutor, whose eyes were clouded by milky glaucoma, could reliably handle.

“What in Hel going on now!” bellowed Sixty-Six over the peal of the klaxon, as he pulled on his grey slave worker uniform, his head briefly becoming comically stuck in the sleeve.

“It’s the departure alarm, you fool”, chided Buthus. “I’ve only been aboard this ship for three days and I have the signals memorized; you’ve been here for months!”

“I won’t be here for many months longer, Mamet”, Sixty-Six retorted angrily in his deep, thickly accented voice. “Serving on a ship of the stars is most likely way for slave to be rescued. It will not be long now! You just see.”

“Halfwit. Have you no clue what ship you’re aboard? This is the Chorus of Angels. The bloody hand of Ardishapur that wiped out the insurgent Starkman homeworld, the last such ship. We’re marked for death in the Republic! The reactor chamber in which we serve, three months ago it was open to space, torn open by a battleship of Matar! Your kind would kill us all to destroy this ship! And my name is Buthus! Buthus, not Mamet!”

His nasally tone getting on the Brutor’s nerves, Sixty-Six shoulder-checked Buthus into the door jamb of their cabin just as the captain’s voice came booming over the ship-wide.

”All crew make ready for departure in six hours!”

A bleary-eyed Jade Constantine appeared none too happy as she approached the guard standing outside the door to Rolette en Bilal’s cell, the frantic clang-clang-clang of a tin tray being dragged across metal bars resonating from within. “It’s five in the morning, this better be good”, she groaned.

“She’s demanding to see legal representation, miss Constantine”, the guard replied with a pained look of exhaustion upon his face. “She’s been at it for two hours.”

“Why did she wait until now?”

The guard shrugged.

“Very well, open the door.”

Knowing full well the former Canoness’ tendency toward making a mess, Constantine cautiously peered around the corner of the now open door. “You!” en Bilal shouted. “I demand a lawyer!”

“Why, so you can pelt him with merde too?” Constantine retorted, smirking. “Don’t get me wrong, I am no fan of lawyers…”

“You cannot deny me this! I have the right to legal counsel and I know it!” The desperation in en Bilal’s eyes was uncharacteristic even for the mad woman.

“Fine, we’ll appoint someone tomorrow. Now let me get back to sleep, you sorry mal-a-tete.”

“NO! I demand my choice of counsel!” She began pulling at her hair. “I want a representative of the Minmatar Republic to defend my case! NOW!”

It was then that Rolette en Bilal became completely hysterical, yanking at the immovable bars imprisoning her like a feral primate. Constantine merely shook her head in revulsion, and nodded to the guard, who promptly closed the door. The demented Sister’s cries followed her far down the hallway. “Why didn’t we dump the bitch in an asylum sooner”, she muttered to no one in particular.

The good Sister had a few hours to herself, which she used to compose herself as best she could. In time, a gaunt, professionally attired Sebiestor with a slim metal briefcase peered through her cell door window. He too stepped in cautiously, having been informed ahead of time to beware erratic behaviour from the prisoner, his nose wrinkling at the stench emanating from within. Rolette’s eyes lit up like embers at the sight of the man’s clan tattoos, indicating at least some history of military service. Revenge would now be hers.

Warily, the legal expert sat on a chair provided for him facing the inner cell. He opened his briefcase, and procured a statement outlining the Sister’s transgressions. “I have reviewed your case, and…”

“Silence”, she interrupted, hissing through clenched teeth. “Come closer. The guard cannot overhear.”

The man refused to budge. The deep claw marks upon en Bilal’s cheek made him fearful she would try to do the same to him. Frustrated, en Bilal lunged toward the bars. “If avenging the massacre of Starkman Prime means anything, anything at all to you, you miserable… come closer!”

She whispered hurriedly into the man’s ear, whose face became clouded with rage.

“All crew, this is your one hour notification, all hands aboard!” The captain’s voice echoed through both the vaulted corridors of the Chorus of Angels, and the docking bay where she was moored. By now, there was a steady stream of bodies pouring into the mammoth warship, as officers, midshipmen and slave crew prepared for departure. None knew the destination, which was probably for the better - captains setting out for the heart of Angel Cartel territory were more likely than not to have a mutiny on their hands.

Clad in the stolen plain garb of a slave maintenance worker, Republic Fleet agent Thorolfur Karsten tried his best to appear inconspicuous as he merged into the crowd. Having only minutes prior selected a slave crewman from the Chorus of Angels sufficiently resembling him in outward appearance, then promptly murdering him and duplicating his slave brand with permanent ink, he hoped the ruse would suffice. “We all look the same to them”, he thought, trying to calm his nerves. When Fleet caught wind of the existence of the battleship, formerly the Hammer of Starkmanir and command ship of the butcher Idonis Ardishapur, their response was near instant. Karsten was merely the vanguard of a hastily assembled plot to finally wipe the slate clean and avenge Starkman Prime; he was entrusted with somehow sabotaging this golden executioner of an entire race so that a Republic fleet could strike it down.

He knew that if he was identified and caught, he would likely face torture from the Amarr aboard. His life did not matter, however - the destruction of the Starkman siege fleet had been one of the Republic’s foremost priorities. The captain of the vessel did not interest him in the slightest; merely some affluent Caldari who had no doubt secured the vessel through greed. He too would pay for his connection to this cursed ship, mused Karsten.

The hardest part was over. His section taskmaster, an obese Amarr, waved him through without a second glance. As he walked the decks of the Chorus of Angels, attempting to familiarize himself with her structure by means of internal diagrams posted at regular intervals throughout the main access corridor, he marvelled at the runaway opulence of her interior. The decks hewn of carved marble; the walls panelled and etched mahogany - and everywhere the gilded glint of gold. He was surprised to find even the slave quarters kept to a high standard. It appeared the Empire spared no resource in building this beast.

He came to the quarters assigned to the unfortunate worker he had slaughtered, and found them empty. Two of the four bunk beds within had been un-made, indicating two other possible inhabitants. He had hoped he could rely on their Minmatar kinship to offset the surprise of finding a potential stranger in place of their former cabin-mate. A noise behind him startled the agent, and he whirled about ready to administer a killing blow. He came face to face with six feet and ten inches of Brutor muscle.

”Gunnar, that you?” the wall of flesh asked, his eyes never quite coming to focus upon the agent, who quickly concluded that the unfortunate chalk-eyed giant was likely devoid of sight.

So, thought Karsten, my new name is Gunnar. “Yes, it’s me.”

“Where you are for so long? You smell different.”

The agent went pale in the face. Had his cover been blown?

“I am glad you finally shower”, continued Sixty-Six, bursting into roaring laughter and prompting a sigh of sincere relief from Thorolfur Karsten. He respected and empathized with the Brutor Tribe, doubly so those stricken with blindness. It would have been a shame to dispose of the big lug.

“Sixty Six, will you hurry up?” An effete voice came from behind the giant, again causing the agent to tense up. “Oh, you must be Gunnar, Sixty Six has mentioned you!” Buthus extended a hand of greeting to the agent, who took it hesitantly, eyeing the newly arrived slave. He was unlike any slave worker he had seen before, not at all bedraggled or muscle-bound from intense physical labour. His hands were even well manicured. Clearly, the skinny one was well indoctrinated and could not be trusted.

“Gunnar should go eat quick,” the Brutor boomed in broken common tongue, wiping his mouth and apparently just having returned from the mess hall. “Shift start soon.”

As the two left, Thorolfur Karsten finally exhaled, and sat down on one of the bunks, wiping the sheen of nervous sweat from his brow. He produced a pea-sized 4-He communicator secreted in his uniform and squeezed it, holding it close to his mouth.

“I’m in.”

Gleaming brighter than ever in the golden sun of some backwater hellhole deep in the Curse region, the Chorus of Angels slashed into being from warp transit, flanked by the Guiding Hand battleships Balance of Judgement and Wrath of Abaddon. The old man was not about to let his prize go unguarded, fully expecting to fight his way through Angel Cartel blockades on their way to the rendezvous with Khoryam Muhammad. The compact battlegroup was quite surprised to find not only a complete lack of aggression from the Cartel, but even warm greetings and outright congratulations for various criminal capers conducted by the Hand.

The planet Penance 161 loomed beneath them, a roiling hell-world rocked by storms and illuminated with a scintilla of constant lightning. In the distance, their sensors identified a half-dozen odd vessels belonging to the elite Dark Angels division, prompting Istvaan to ponder whether there was an association between the Cartel and Muhammad. Even further out, in high orbit around the raging orb, there lay the scaffolding for some sort of massive superstructure in the middle of construction.

The Angel Cartel was gearing up for war.

A tiny one-man atmospheric shuttle emerged from the Chorus of Angels’ drone bay, locking on to the landing beacon broadcast by the prison camp on the planet’s surface. The light craft rattled violently as it punctured layer after distinct layer of the world’s tumultuous atmosphere. As the clouds slowly began to part toward the surface, Istvaan struggled to make out the features of a structure looming against a rocky crag. This was much more than a prison camp, he realized with a start - it was some kind of Imperial fortress.

The first thing the old man noted after disembarking was a scarcity of royal guards uncharacteristic to an Imperial installation. Only directional beacon-lights served to guide him to the interior, where he came to face an arched doorway.

It was too late to turn back now, as the doors slowly parted, revealing some form of throne chamber beyond. The chamber was illuminated with a strong central light, and contained two thrones - one lesser and ill-lit, upon which he recognized the seated form of Khoryam Muhammad, and one tall throne upon a marble staircase, completely enveloped in shadow. He stood in the light; head lowered in deference, and covertly tried to make out the form of the individual sitting upon the high throne. It was no use - clearly, the room was designed such that the person upon that throne could glimpse those standing in the light, but not vice versa. Imperial architecture was often built with a mind toward intimidation.

He waited. Muhammad turned to the darkened throne, and Istvaan picked up the slightest movement, perhaps the hint of a head nodding, a head that bore a four-pronged crown sometimes seen upon women of considerable standing in the Empire. Acknowledging the gesture, Muhammad spoke.

“Istvaan Shogaatsu, of New Caldari stands before you, my Lady.”

The old man’s stomach sank. If she were who he thought she was, the ‘Lady’ would not deign to speak to this foreigner herself. He was below her, a lesser being unfit to address her directly. This was fine.

Khoryam resumed speaking. “The Lady has asked that I convey her gratitude to you. Your record of service to House Sarum is long and exemplary. Your decade of allegiance to this house has not gone unnoticed, and she wishes to express her sincerest thanks for your attack against the Ubiqua Seraph, whom, if not so vanquished, would have unravelled everything we have worked toward. With Mirial’s obsessive quest to uncover the Lady’s whereabouts nullified, and the considerable finances you have channelled into House Sarum from both the dissolution of the Endless Corporation, and the Ubiqua Seraph strike, the Lady felt you were deserving of audience. Naturally, it is of the utmost importance that you speak to no one of this meeting, and we will require you to wipe any mnemonic implants you possess of records of this day.”

“Of course”, Istvaan replied, his heart racing.

“Second, the Lady wishes me to express her thanks for arriving in the Chorus of Angels. While she has seen countless vessels of its class, the fact that you would bring it here proves your dedication, and the fact that you brought escort demonstrates a tactical shrewdness, which will be important to us in the future.”

He nodded gracefully, biting his lip for not having seen through so transparent a ploy.

“It is then my last duty for today, to inform you that House Sarum will call upon you again in the coming weeks, God willing. There are… matters, which we would rather not handle ourselves, lest they reveal our gambit prematurely. We expect you will be prepared.”

“As always, I am yours, old friend.” He bowed deeply, his eyes never leaving the crown. The howl of whipping wind outside the fortress walls marked a long and uncomfortable silence, as Muhammad turned to his Lady and hurriedly discussed in hushed whispers. He could have eavesdropped with his auditory implant, but Shogaatsu decided not to risk it. It was simply rude.

Khoryam stood to his feet, taking a moment to straighten out his slightly humped back. He approached Istvaan, and the two embraced as old friends might. “Go with God”, the sagely Amarr whispered, his dim eyes twinkling with a tear of joyful fondness.

Shogaatsu knew better than to overstay his welcome in the court of a noble. He turned to leave, when the sound of heels striking marble prompted him to stop. Whoever was upon that elevated throne, had decided to reveal herself. Hesitantly, he turned around, confirming his suspicions once and for all. What happened next surprised him utterly.

There she stood, resplendent in her crown and robes, nothing short of a majestic lioness. “Go with God, Istvaan Shogaatsu of the Caldari”, said Jamyl Sarum.