Chương 156: Nova Wars - Chapter 127

I'll do whatever I have to do to save humanity. I don't give two fucks about the rest of [the species], but I won't stand idly by while humanity is swept from the universe again. Even if I have to burn the stars from the sky with my own two hands. - The Detainee The Final Sight of Black Night, a colossus class warship in the Deireadh an Domhain classification designed to support a full company of Ringbreaker troops and the combat and logistics support personnel required for an effective military campaign.

The Final Sight of Black Night was designed to provide orbital fire support, establish control of a stellar system, as well as provide manufacturing, medical, and transportation services to a full brigade of Ringbreaker Knights if necessary.

Commanded by High Lord Knight Banneret Aesir of the Sancti Ordo Spiritus Tyr Valorus O'Byrne, a High Lord Captain in charge of the Final Sight of Black Night, in command of Task Force Niamhchloch, called "Task Force Warhammer" for ease of conversation, the ship was escorted by two dozen other vessels. All of them part of 'fleet elements' commonly known in naval parlance as 'screening vessels.' Knight O'Byrne sat, wearing comfortable flannel pajamas, in his comfortable and cozy quarters.

The fireplace against the wall was showing a holographic fire, complete with the snapping and popping of the burning wood. It wasn't off the shelf holograms. His mother had recorded the holograms when he had graduated to Squire and been granted his own suit of armor, to remind him of who he was and where he had came from. It helped at times that O'Byrne felt nervousness, anxiety, or trepidation, to watch the flames that had danced in the fireplace of his family home.

There was a chime and the lights by the door dimmed and brightened twice. O'Byrne heaved a big sigh and nodded to himself before triggering the intercom.

"Yes?" The voice that answered was young, likely a page.

"The mat-trans has finished cycling."

"Very well," O'Byrne got up from his comfortable chair, putting his spectacles in his shirt pocket.

"Were they alone?"

"Yes," the page stated.

"Inform them that I will be visiting them soon," O'Byrne stated.

"As you command," the page said. The lights dimmed and brightened to signal that the page had moved off. O'Byrne moved over to his wardrobe and changed his clothing slowly. He knew he would have to be careful in word and deed. Even his posture and breathing would be judged. Once dressed he moved into the corridor, moving further into the ship. Twice he had to move out of the way for a work party to move through the corridor. It didn't matter the rank, a work party took precedence for the right of way aboard a ship.

He used the time to ensure that he was calm, silently reciting mantras as he walked through the corridors until he reached the heavily guarded stateroom. He tapped twice at the door.

"What?" the voice was female and annoyed. Still, it had a lilt, the smokey whiskey roughened voice had a strange accent that was all its own.

"I was informed you had returned. I wish to see you with mine own two eyes," O'Byrne stated.

"Fine," the voice said. The intercom clicked off and the door made a thumping sound as the mag-locks disengaged. The foyer was dimly lit, the fireplace glowing embers for a standard holorecording. There was a cape draped over one chair but no other hint of where the occupant was located.

"Where are you?" O'Byrne asked. A small pinprick of light appeared.

"Follow," the woman's voice said. O'Byrne shook his head slightly as he followed the gleaming mote further into the suite. It stopped next to a heavy door that was decorated to look as if it was made of old dark oak. O'Byrne knew it was a test. Beyond the door was the bath chamber, a luxurious bathing area that had been designed to appeal to vanity and a desire for grandeur. He tapped the door and stood in the doorway when it opened.

The bathtub, easily large enough for a score of people to relax in, was covered with thick rich foam. The lights were pale and dim, almost pearly white with their light. There was the smell of honeysuckle and ripe blackberries. His 'hostage' was reclining in the bath, her hair unbound and spread out behind her, outside the water and foam. The woman's bare shoulders were visible, but her collarbones were hidden by foam. Her gunmetal gray eyes stared at him.

"What?" the woman asked.

"I heard you returned. Mat-trans is risky," he started to say. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

"To anyone else," the woman interrupted.

"And I wished to ensure that you emerged unscathed," he continued as if she had not spoke.

"I'm fine," the woman said. She lowered herself into the water and foam until only her eyes and nose were above the foam. She took a couple of deep breaths, submerged herself, then pulled her hair in afterwards. After almost three minutes she surfaced again, wiping the foam off of her face.

"You're still here," she commented.

"Yes," O'Byrne stated.

"You know, I do have a pertinent question for you," the Detainee said.

"I will answer to the best of my ability," O'Byrne replied.

"You are the highest ranking aboard this ship. To use common parlance, you are the admiral of this fleet," The Detainee slowly stood up as she spoke, the suds running down her body. O'Byrne reminded himself that what he was looking at was less a woman and more a force of the cosmos. She was short, thick of body, but her stomach was only slightly rounded, her waist narrower than her hips. She was undeniably female.

"You are in charge of tens of thousands of your people. You have knights loyal to you serving beneath you," she said, the water and suds sliding down her body.

"Yet there are only twenty Novastar pilots, including you," she stated, moving over to where the warm and dry towels sat. O'Byrne just stood there, keeping his face still, as she slowly moved over and picked up a towel.

"You are the one who decides upon the strategy this fleet will take. Your leadership is vital to the success of this fleet's mission," she continued saying as she rubbed the towel against her pale skin. He knew she was making a show of drying off.

"Yet, you are the first to enter combat. Your drop-pod is the first launched. You are the last to leave the battlefield, as if you are you a terrestrial general in charge of infantry troops," she stated. O'Byrne said nothing, just watched as she wrapped the towel around herself to cover her breasts and loins. He knew that it was a show of her mastery over the nanites in the air and permeating everything when she snapped her fingers and her hair squeegeed dry and then braided itself.

"That seems to be dangerous to me. That you are putting the entire fleet at risk to run out and play in your armor like a small child who has found a cool stick and a garbage can lid," the Detainee said. She held out one hand and the pack of cigarettes and lighter floated over to her. She made a production out of standing there and lighting a cigarette in the nude. She exhaled smoke, her eyes perfectly visible through the smoke.

"Why, Knight O'Byrne, do you leave the flagship during combat in order to fight on the ground? Why is the admiral leaving the fleet to fight groundside?" The lighter and pack floated back as she stood there, puffing on the cigarette.

"Tradition," O'Byrne said stiffly. The Detainee smiled, her sharp even white teeth gleaming through the smoke.

"Get a good eyefull?" she asked.

"Just what you intended on me seeing," O'Byrne replied, without changing expression. The Detainee nodded, making a waving motion with her hand. Her clothing lifted up and followed, starting to steam as the nanites cleaned it.

"Your realize, your agreement to be my hostage was unnecessary," O'Byrne said. The Detainee suddenly smiled.

"Possibly. But I made the offer and you agreed to it anyway." O'Byrne just nodded, following the Detainee into the main room of the suite.

"I had to take care of some business, recruit some necessary assets," the Detainee said.

"You are in the middle of a Sancti Ordo Spiritus Tyr armada. Why would you need to leave to recruit?" O'Byrne asked, following the Detainee. He had a feeling that he wouldn't like the answer, but didn't shy away from asking it anyway.

"Every single person is an individual," the Detainee said. She sat down on the couch, smiling at O'Byrne as she slowly crossed her legs. O'Byrne refused to react, just sitting down across from her.

"Every person is genetically distinct, despite claims that sheer numbers ensure that there are duplicates through history. Set since birth genetics get changed by environment, damaged or otherwise altered," she stated.

"There was not a single version of what I needed within your entire armada," the Detainee said.

"What did you need?" O'Byrne asked.

"Specific individuals," The Detainee smiled.

"I'm only asking for permission to bring them aboard out of politeness," she stretched, the towel holding on for dear life. She let her arms drop and exhaled smoke from the cigarette held between her teeth.

"Trust me," her grin got wider.

"Which is banker-speak for 'fuck you', by the way." O'Byrne shook his head.

"What is the purpose of stating an obvious falsehood?" The Detainee shook her head.

"Nevermind," she blew smoke at the ceiling even as she dropped her other hand down to where a drink was sitting. A short glass, with ice cubes and dark brown liquid in it. She lifted it up and sipped at it even as she stubbed out her cigarette.

"They want your permission to board."

"All right. Why now?" O'Byrne asked.

"You've left hyperspace. You're in realspace, in n-space, so now I can bring them onboard without using the mat-trans," the Detainee said. Her smile got wider. O'Byrne sighed again, knowing that the Detainee was perfectly willing to draw out the request into a verbal sparring match, a duel of wits, just to amuse herself. He had grown up with sisters and knew how to get ahead of that.

"Fine," O'Byrne said, standing up.

"We'll be in realspace for another sixteen hours. Bring them aboard," he walked toward the door, then stopped, looking back.

"Of course, their behavior will reflect upon you." The Detainee smiled wider.

"Of course it will." As the door closed, he heard her start to laugh. He knew that whatever or whoever he had just agreed to allow onboard would likely be the focus of many conversations, many arguments about why or how he could have made such a mistake, but that was for the future. If there was one. O'Byrne refused to lie to himself. The Mar-gite were flooding into the Confederacy's areas, into the Cygnus-Orion Galactic Arm Spur, devouring everything in their path.

Hundreds of billions if not trillions had already been devoured. Trillions, tens of trillions, even more were in danger. Many would be devoured. There were species and races and civilizations that nobody ever heard of that would be in danger. Species that had managed to survive and thrive when the Precursor Autonomous War Machines had ruled the Long Dark. Species that had survived the Second Precursor War through luck or by keeping their heads down. All were in jeopardy.

O'Byrne knew that the Detainee held powers beyond normal mortals could ever hope to even understand. He also understood that she treated with and conspired with creatures and beings just as powerful as she was. That power would be needed. Desperately. He stepped out of the elevator and walked slowly into the main deployment bay. There were the larger suits, all of them support units for the Novastars, and even full blown warmeks and robot combat armor, scattered through the bay.

He looked them up and down as he walked through the bay. Many of them had artwork, much of it borderline if not outwardly lewd, of the Detainee. He noted that most were slim, hourglass figures, or lush bodied but tall and elegant looking. All had blood red lips. We still remember her. We still fear her, he thought. The Founder warned us that she would return in humanity's darkest hour. He stopped in front of a heavily armored 'coffin', a locker to hold a suit of slightly larger than man-sized armor.

He stepped forward, past the yellow and black striped line, to put his hand on the surface of the heavy armor.

"Rest well, Fu Hao," O'Byrne said softly.

"Soon, we will be called to battle."