Aetheral Space

There was a saying among the servicemen of UniteFleet:

They said that Captain Jaime Pierrot was the captain of two ships. The first was called the Unite Regent. The second was called the Unified Alliance of Planets.

He certainly cut an impressive figure, striding through the sliding doorway into the meeting room. The boyish explorer of his youth had smoothly transitioned into the rugged daredevil of his later years, and that had now evolved into a firm, wise dignity akin to that of an elder statesman.

His head was smooth and bald, reflecting the white lights inside the Unite Regent as he entered the room. The peppermint beard he had beneath that was expertly groomed, giving off the impression of advanced age while expunging any notion of fragility that might be associated with it. The uniform he wore -- a buttoned-up blue captain coat with black pants and shoes -- had nary a thread out of place. This was a man of exactitude in all things.

The meeting room itself was circular, positioned several decks below the bridge -- so that it could be reached easily via elevator by command staff if they were needed. On a ship like this, delay in making decisions could easily mean disaster.

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The Regent’s chief of security, Overman Yaza, was already seated -- she understood that fact. She was wearing heavy security armour, layered white plates providing protection from both plasma and punchpoint. The helmet was on the table in front of her, and she rested a gloved hand protectively on top of it. She was a woman in her thirties, with brown skin and robust eyebrows. Her eyes were cautious as a hawk -- even as she nodded respectfully at her captain, she was watching for any sign of danger.

If Yaza had the eyes of a hawk, then the head of personnel, Overman Langston, had those of an owl, wide and anxious. He was pacing nervously back and forth -- muttering silently to himself. Perhaps the Umbrant was running numbers in his mind, or practicing what he would say in this consultation. His green uniform was disheveled -- given the late hour, he’d probably thrown it on quickly.

Underman Rose, one of the newer cadets brought aboard the Unite Regent, followed behind the captain. The pale young woman’s short black hair was messy in the kind of way that can only be deliberate -- just enough to be noticeable, but not enough to impede. She wore the red jumpsuit of an Underman, her UniteFleet badge proudly placed over her heart.

Captain Pierrot pulled up his seat at the head of the table and sat down, fingers clasped in front of him. "Thank you for coming at such short notice, everyone. I understand this is cutting into your own free time, but I thought it only prudent to take stock of matters while we have a quiet moment."

"Free time?" Yaza smirked humorlessly. "Believe me, Cap. If you hadn’t called for me, I’d be in my quarters doing sweet f -- doing pretty much nothing."

"All the same, I appreciate it. On your part as well, Mr. Langston."

"Sure, okay," Langston said, hurriedly getting into his own chair -- he was already pulling a holographic projector out of his pocket. "There’s, um -- there’s a lot to get into, so maybe we should skip the pleasantries?"

Pierrot sighed, but there was still a smile on his face. "I do adore pleasantries in most cases, Mr. Langston, but this time I believe you’re right. Let’s start with the state of the major players."

These crew members had duties for both of Jaime Pierrot’s ships, after all. It was their job to monitor and identify threats to both the Unite Regent and the Unified Alliance of Planets -- and they did their job well.

Langston nodded, tapping a few buttons on his wrist-bound script. "Things are generally calm at present, sir -- in a macro-sense, of course, there’s a lot of internal strife going on in most cases rather than external, which would be, um, bad for us, I imagine."

Yaza raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Such as?" She wasn’t one who had much patience for Langston’s waffling.

"The Final Church," Langston went on, talking a mile a minute. "I’ll start with them, as an -- well, as an example, their three sects. The Paradisas have mostly been quiet, recently -- but that’s nothing new. It’s the Humilists and the Superbians who we need to, um, need to watch out for. The Humilists Apexbishop is still doing her best to consolidate resources for the Truemeet later this year -- and that’s making enemies from the, well, the owners of those resources. The Superbian Apexbishop -- he’s still only recently come into power, but he’s been clashing with his cardinals. Someone’s going to make a play for extra power there."

Pierrot rubbed his chin. "But it’s still all self-contained?"

"That’s right, yes, sir."

"Then we can just continue to observe for the time being," Pierrot nodded. "What about the others on our watchlist?"

Yaza took over, reading from the script in front of her. "The Branches of the Tree of Might are still eating each other alive in that damn succession crisis, so they haven’t been involved in much outside that for a while. Darkstar are still awaiting the return of their King. ExoCorp has been...well, this is just a rumour, so don’t go putting your faith in it -- but words going around that they paid to have a Supremacy Minister assassinated."

"That’s surprisingly bold of them." ExoCorp was known for unscrupulous business practices, but direct action like that was something else entirely.

"It’s just a story, mind," Yaza said. "But the way it goes, apparently Minister Garan Elliot was really pushing for the Supremacy to have exclusive Panacea rights, starting to put pressure on ExoCorp with military might. It wouldn’t be a longshot for someone to take him out -- hell, I can see us doing it, if they didn’t."

She was right -- Panacea was a vital resource. The idea of one side of the cold war having exclusive access to that kind of unbelievable healing would have driven the UAP to unseemly action, had they gotten wind of it in time. Ideals were all well and good, but not when you were bleeding to death by sticking to them.

"Keep a tab on it all the same," Pierrot decided after a moment. "The changes in the CEO’s behaviour still concern me. I want to be alerted if ExoCorp makes another move like this."

"Very well, sir." Yaza tapped a button next to the document, and a star appeared to mark the track.

With the minor business settled, Pierrot leaned forward in his chair, taking a deep breath. "Now that we’re caught up on those matters," he said joylessly. "I’d like an update on our very best friends." The sarcasm was unmistakable, and a little dissonant coming from the captain’s mouth -- he should have aged out of such snark almost twenty years ago.

Known space was divided territory-wise between the Supremacy, the Unified Alliance of Planets and the Final Church. They’d covered the Final Church, and Pierrot didn’t need to be told about his own government. That only left...

Langston tapped a button on his script, and a holographic projection appeared over the table. A recreation of the crown of the Supremacy’s military might - a gargantuan metal starstation, with five radial arms like a starfish, huge enough to cast a shadow over a megacity. The entirety of its surface was coated in high-power turrets -- and if you looked closely, you could see massive containers hanging from its underside, full to bursting with swarms of combat automatics. A single ship that could take on a planet all by itself.

The Sheshanaga.

"The Supreme still hasn’t left the station," Langston said.

Yaza chuckled. "He hasn’t left the station for twenty years, Langston -- not since the Dranell rebellion. That’s hardly news. For all we know, maybe he had a heart attack on his throne and died like the last one."

Langston, immune to sarcasm as ever, shook his head hurriedly. "No, no. If the Supreme had died, there’d be no way the Contenders could keep it quiet -- they, well, they wouldn’t even if they could. If the Supreme was dead, I mean, one of them would have already taken the credit."

"Barbarians," Yaza rolled her eyes. "Doesn’t make sense to me -- how are you supposed to have a functioning government when you can replace the head of state by killing them? It’s a miracle the Supremacy didn’t collapse hundreds of years ago."

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When Pierrot spoke next, it was with surprising firmness -- and the stern tone to his voice made everyone sit up a little straighter. "Well, it hasn’t," he said, giving Yaza a pointed look. "And we will gain nothing from thinking ourselves better than our enemies. Given the opportunity, they will destroy us. Thinking of them as a farce may cause us to forget that. Am I understood?"

Chastised, Yaza quietly nodded. "Yes, sir."

"So long as I’m understood. Langston -- the rest of the Contenders? I assume Avaman is with the Supreme, still?"

Langston nodded, tapping a few more buttons on his script.

The holographic image changed to a humanoid figure -- a man in leather armour and a dark purple cloak. His face was concealed by an opaque visor, the contours of the glass designed to give just the vaguest impression of human features.

Langston spoke: "Apart from a brief outing to, um, well, to dispose of a bandit tribe, yes. He’s remained with the Supreme."

"Sounds like he got bored. What about Charon? She continues to expand her network?"

"That she does," Langston agreed, before swapping the hologram over the table. Avaman’s imposing figure was replaced with a three-dimensional recreation of an image. The second Contender -- Paradise Charon -- arriving on a ship, strolling through the hangar with her arms behind her back. She was wearing a garish yellow business suit, her hair dyed blue and shaved to a fuzz on her head -- her fashion sense was eclectic as ever. The image rotated slightly, and from that angle sharp red thimbles could be seen on her index fingers, giving the impression of claws.

She was accompanied by another man -- short blonde hair under a black conical hat. He wore a traditional green warcoat, open to show off his bare chest, and a sword was sheathed at each of his hips. The man was clearly quite tall, but Paradise Charon stood a head over him all the same.

"Baltay Kojirough?" Pierrot said -- even as he asked, though, there was no surprise in his voice. "That’s quite a catch for Charon."

Langston nodded. "Our agent on the Child Garden believes they’ve been romantically involved since a few months ago -- when Kojirough took the Supreme Heir to a festival on Balan Prime."

Yaza sighed as she leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "So there’s another ally she’s got -- plus she pretty much has control of the Heir now, too. I’ll bet money she makes another go at the Supreme before long."

Pierrot closed his eyes, deep in thought -- as if he were listening to something else entirely. "I’d much rather have a lazy Supreme like the present one than someone as ambitious as Paradise Charon. Continue monitoring the situation -- we may have to intervene if we think she has a chance of succeeding. The others?"

The image changed again -- a blurry recreation of a single frame of surveillance footage, taken from a temple on Ocean Hate. What was left of the head priest was scattered throughout the main hall -- and in the corner, blurry and indistinct from speed of movement, was a vague quadruped that could only be the Hellhound.

"Don’t know what the guy did to piss the Supremacy off," Yaza winced, looking at the priest’s mauled remains. "But I don’t envy him. The Hellhound always finds its prey."

He was unambitious, though -- content to do as he was told, receive his rewards, and little else. He didn’t require as much scrutiny as the other three Contenders.

"Last but, ah, but certainly not least…" Langston switched the image again. "Wu Ming."

The hologram now displayed long-range footage of a spot on some desert planet -- warped blue mountains visible in the distance, protruding from the black sand. A man in flamboyant dress was strolling through the desert, swinging his arms exaggeratedly.

He had the jet-black sclera of an Umbrant, long dark hair, and a patchwork coat of many colours and materials -- from denim to leather. Both his eyebrows were pierced with some silver studs, and a golden nose chain ran from the olfactory organ to his left ear. A strange smile played across his bright red lips.

"The Fourth Contender’s as unique as ever," commented Pierrot, before a crease of concern ran across his brow. "Hold a moment. Where was this image taken?"

Langston’s face was grim. "This was taken on Duras the Greater, sir."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Suddenly, the walls seemed to constrain more than protect, an inevitable claustrophobia striking everyone there. Any humour that had been present drained away in an instant.

"When?" Pierrot’s tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"Three days ago."

"So he’s already inside UAP space. Do we know what he was doing there?"

Langston meekly shook his head -- and as he did, Pierrot rose to his feet, chair squealing as the legs scraped against the floor.

"I want to know what that man was up to," he said, face dark. "Within the week. Sooner, if possible. I don’t care how many resources you need to invest -- and make sure nobody connected to the governing council gets wind of this. If they discover one of the Supreme’s personal agents is roaming around our space as they please, this cold war is going to turn hot very quickly."

There was no room for argument when faced with Captain Pierrot’s tone -- just by listening to his words, you understood that this was the way things were going to be. When it came from Pierrot’s mouth, it wasn’t just a command -- it was scripture.

"Yes, sir," Yaza and Langston parroted each other. Despite the differences in their personalities, they were united by their loyalty and obedience towards Captain Pierrot.

"Dismissed." With the orders handed down, Pierrot turned swiftly on his heel and marched out of the room, Underman Rose following quickly after him.

The observer switched to a hallway camera to watch him go.

"Sir?" Rose asked nervously, speeding up to match the Captain’s long strides. "I don’t know if now’s a good time, but there’s some other matters for your attention. Just on this ship, though, I mean."

Pierrot’s eyes kept straight forward. "Proceed."

"We’ve had a communication from an Ambassador Dalcina of Adrust -- she’s on her way here, sir. Apparently there are some private matters she needs to discuss with you?"

Pierrot’s stride didn’t break, but the slightest smirk betrayed his satisfaction. "Is that so?" he mused. "Such auspicious timing."

Rose cocked her head. "Sir?"

"Don’t worry about it. Inform the Ambassador I look forward to receiving her."

"Yes, sir," Rose nodded, tapping a few buttons on her script -- only to pause, finger hovering over the screen. "Oh, sir? I almost forgot. You wanted me to keep you informed on the prisoners we picked up in the Ulos system. We’ve brought them aboard and got them processed -- their ship is impounded in Hangar 19, but we’ve confirmed no suspicious articles on board."

"I’m very glad to hear that, Underman Rose," Pierrot said, coming to a stop outside the elevator doors. "But I feel I must correct you on one little thing. This Skipper and his crew aren’t our prisoners -- they’re our guests. Please inform them they’re invited to dinner in my personal quarters tonight."

And without another word, he stepped into the elevator, tapped a button, and went zooming up. Rose was left to stand there, script still held between her hands, face a mask of confusion.

"Huh?" she said.

"Now this is what I call hospitality," grinned Skipper, leaning back in his seat -- boots perched on top of the expensive-looking table.

"Really?" Dragan raised a typically judgemental eyebrow. "It’s not what I’d call it."

"What would you call it, Mr. Dragan?" Serena said cheerfully -- she was sat across from Dragan, happily folding and unfolding a napkin that had foolishly been put within arm’s reach.

"I’d call it the exact same thing that happened back on Taldan. We’re prisoners. Believe you me, they’re nice right now, but the minute we’re not useful to them anymore, it’ll be the exact same thing."

Ruth spoke up. Her arms were folded, and her eyes were flicking cautiously around the room. "I won’t let them do anything to you guys," she said seriously. "Don’t worry."

"I’m not worried," Dragan backtracked. "I’m just saying what’s going to happen -- none of you guys can say I didn’t warn you now, is all. Are we clear on that? I definitely warned all of you."

"Yeah, yeah," Skipper waved a dismissive hand, still leaning so far back in his chair that he was eye-level with the ceiling. "I hear ya."

Dragan leaned forward, eyebrows creased in annoyance. "What did I say, then?"

Another wave of the hand. "I hear ya."

After having their ship impounded, they’d been ’escorted’ up to the quarters of the Captain of this ship. Nobody had threatened them or physically forced them to come up here, per se, but there was an undeniable implication that they’d regret it if they didn’t comply.

The room itself was surprisingly large for a military ship -- it seemed more like a dining room from some kind of classical manor than something you’d find on a starship, all wood upholstery and antiques. A collection of esoteric and ancient-looking weapons took up the entire far wall, behind a glass display case. There, ceremonial daggers and intricately-carved spears were neighbours to gold-trimmed muskets and shields emblazoned with the sigils of nations that no longer existed.

The long desk that the Captain presumably worked at was empty, with not even a deactivated script present on its surface. It seemed that this place, at least, had better security than Dir’s office back on Taldan.

Still, at least Dir had had the decency to be there when they dragged to his office. Since being brought in here, Dragan hadn’t seen even a peep of Captain Pierrot or whatever his name was.

Well, it seemed like that was about to change. Dragan could hear measured, even footsteps coming from the hallway outside. On cue, the doors opened -- and an older man stepped in, smiling genially. He wore the uniform of a UniteFleet captain.

"I apologize for the wait, my friends," he said, friendliness in his voice. "We’ve been quite busy the last couple of days, so I’ve had a great deal to attend to. I trust I didn’t make you wait too long?"

He said all the right things. There was an unmistakable kindness to his face. Not the slightest trace of malice or hostility was present in any of his body language.

But Dragan knew instinctively, the moment he saw Captain Pierrot:

This man is a liar.