Taer Atlos,
Imperial Palace
Grand Admiral Alecto Rian stormed into the private quarters of the Emperor, two stunned Legionaries following behind ordering him to halt. He ignored them, knowing they would not dare harm the supreme commander of the Imperial Starfleet.
Alshanah, the Emperor’s latest consort stepped between him and the door to the bedchamber. “He is not seeing anyone,” she said. While she put on a commanding voice, Rian saw her hands trembled.
“He is dying,” Rian said without slowing down. He would not be stopped. He pushed past the woman, and she gave way without any resistance. Rian was going to see his dearest friend before he passed, no matter the imperial protocol of keeping the Emperor’s illness a secret.
The Emperor, the strongest and mightiest man Rian had ever known, lay frail and gasping for breath in his canopied bed.
“My emperor, I have come,” Rian said, kneeling next to the bed. “I am sorry for breaking protocol.”
Shiram Morghanos turned his head on his pillows to see. His eyes were milky, sunken into his skull. His skin was taught over a fragile looking skeleton as he reached a hand out. “Alecto,” he spoke feebly. “I hoped you’d come. The disease has progressed and the physicians can do nothing to slow it now.”
Rian felt tears welling up in his eyes, seeing his friend in such a state. “I would trade my life if it would save yours,” he wailed. He gripped the Emperor’s hand as tightly as he dared, afraid he could easily hurt him.
Shiram’s hand went limp as he let out a long raspy breath. Rian let go of his hand which fell softly onto the Emperor’s chest. “Don’t say such noble drivel. The Imperium will need you now more than ever.”
He waved Rian closer. The Grand Admiral leaned in until he was nearly touching the Emperor’s face with his nose. “I will soon die,” he whispered, but a new strength had returned to his voice. “I have no living children to pass the Celestial Throne to…” his voice trailed off.
“Why did you not name an heir?” Rian asked.
The Emperor coughed. “They would have murdered them too, just like my children.”
“Who?”
“I know not. If I did I would have wiped them from the galaxy. Now, alas, it is too late. Whoever my enemies are I will never know. But they are the ones who poisoned me. Long I’ve fought it’s effects, but now it will win and I will die.” He grabbed onto Rian’s arm, squeezing hard. “The Imperium will soon tear itself apart as the Noble Houses scheme for the throne. My enemies will likely make their final move. When they reveal themselves, you must avenge me. Promise me.”
Rian gave his friend his promise. The Emperor released his arm and his eyes closed. The Grand Admiral feared he had passed right then, but soon there came labored breathing. Rian stood back up to let his friend rest. He would keep his word to his friend.
He called for Alshanah, the consort. “Tend him well, and when he passes, inform me first or face my wrath, woman.” He then stormed from the bedchamber. There were things to prepare.
Coarin,
Plains of Amalleth
The rains had come late this year. Hiram had worried of a drought which would kill the Rishmaz* and ruin the harvest. Now that the rains had come, he was worried flooding would do that instead.
The Archduke inspected the spillways and canals that criss crossed the plains, and the fields of grain growing across it. His flyer circled low over a place where the spill off threatened to overwhelm the walls of the canal and rush into the surrounding fields.
“There,” he pointed for his engineer to see. “That spot needs reinforcement.”
The engineer nodded, making another mark on the digital map on his display. “That makes thirty-nine total spots,” the engineer said. “I’ve got crews working on the first dozen, but I’m worried a breach will occur before we get them all.”
“I’ll send more of my men to help out,” Hiram said confidently. He was going to do his best to ensure the crop. Rishaz was an important commodity to the local economy, and it grew nowhere else on the planet. “Just have your people show them what to do…”
“Sorry to interrupt,” the flyer pilot said from the cockpit. “You are receiving an important message from the palace, Your Highness.”
“Tell them it can wait,” the Archduke responded irritably.
“They say it's a communication from the Imperial throne.”
Hiram sighed. Of course he’d receive an Imperial communication at a time where his attention was needed elsewhere. He gave the pilot the order to return to the palace, and for the other flyers nearby to continue circling the plains.
By time his flyer touched down at the palace landing pad he was in a sour mood. He hoped whatever the Emperor had to say was worth his time, and not another general admonition of the antics of the Noble Houses.
His Seneschal, Chaob Bashir, met him on the landing pad with an umbrella. “This better be worth my time,” Hiram roared over the rain.
Chaob, holding the umbrella over the Archduke as they hurried to the entrance to the palace responded, “Your cousin has passed away.”
Hiram came to a stop in the middle of the landing pad. He grabbed the Seneschal’s shoulder. “Shiram is dead?”
“The Imperial Palace has informed all the Archduke’s that the Emperor passed from a congenital illness. They will inform the Diet Galactica on the morrow.”
Hiram closed his eyes, a vision of his cousin in his youth rising up from his memories. Shiram had become emperor in his thirties, a rare thing for any emperor to ascend to the throne that young. That had been ninety-four years ago. Hiram hadn’t become Archduke for another forty years after that. They’d been close in their youth, but age and politics had driven a deep wedge between them. The last time they’d spoke, after a session of the Diet Galactica they had gotten into a heated argument that ended with the Emperor threatening to destroy house Drof-Antier, a piece at a time.
As the rain poured down around them, splattering off the ground and soaking the hems of his pants, he stood silently in reverence for a few moments to mourn his cousin’s passing. When he broke the silence it was to ask the most important question. “Did he name an heir?”
The seneschal shook his head. There had been no mention of an heir being named. Hiram turned and continued towards the palace. Once inside, out of the rain he began to pace around the small vestibule just inside the door. The seneschal shook out the umbrella onto the brown tiles and closed it up, dropping it in a holder next to the door.
“The Archduke’s will need to name a Regnier,” Hiram spoke to himself. The Seneschal just stood to the side, his hands clasped in front of him as he waited for the Archduke to finish thinking out loud. “But who to choose? Who from the thousands of nobles to pick? And who to name emperor?”
The Seneschal took the opportunity to interrupt. “Perhaps you, Your Highness,” he said. “You are Shiram’s cousin, a close familial relation that no other Archduke can claim.”
Hiram gave him a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s a possibility, but that will likely make me the least popular candidate. No, this will cause chaos and confusion. The Imperium may very well tear itself apart over this.” He paced back and forth, muttering names of potential Regnier’s. Chaob noticed a number of them were allied with the Archduke, or would at least be counted on to support his claim to the throne, should he press it. The Seneschal smiled, wondering how many of the other Archdukes were having similar discussions, and naming candidates that were loyal to them.
“I’ve got it,” Hiram said, turning to the Seneschal so fast he stepped back in surprise. “Prepare my delegation. We will travel to Taer Atlos within the hour. With any luck we’ll beat everyone else there. And try to get word to Count Taschal to meet me at the Diet Galactica.”
“Adammar Taschal?” Chaob asked for clarification.
“Indeed,” Hiram responded as he turned and raced from the room. “I’ll need his support.”
*Rishmaz: a type of grain used in the fermentation of strong beverages. It also has medicinal benefits.
Taer Atlos,
In Orbit
Grand Admiral Rian had received word of Shiram’s death an hour before the Diet Galactica did. The consort had at least done as she was commanded. Likely out of fear, but that still worked for him. By time the Diet, and its ministers tried contacting him, he was finished with his preparations.
The orders came through. “You are to prepare to defend Taer Atlos over the coming days,” the message said. He just turned his communicator off and gave the order.
The fleet engaged their transwarp drives, and one by one they flashed away into the starry sky. The massive warships, the carriers, the cruisers, even the smallest corvettes and frigates. Gone. Only the local defense forces remained. Once people on the planet knew they were gone there was panic.
But Rian didn’t care about any chaos he was leaving behind. The Imperial Starfleet was his to command, and he would not let it be a tool of the Diet, or the Noble Houses who would soon be positioning for the throne. All across the Imperium ships abandoned their positions, transwarping away to who knows where.
They had a number of systems, out of the way and little known that they would rendezvous at. But the bulk of the fleet, which had been guarding the Imperial Capital, had it’s on destination.
They arrived in a trinary system, the three giant suns blasting them with solar radiation and tidal forces. Alarms blared on Rian’s command ship as the shields cycled, attempting to compensate. But his people knew what to do and they quickly brought the ship onto a course between the suns, coming out into an area relatively clear of the forces beating against the ship. The rest of the fleet followed.
Rian watched the ship’s sensor readings. He clenched his fists, forcing down his anticipation. He needed to be calm. At last the sensors picked up what he was looking for. A massive space station, riding gently on the eddy of solar forces. It was larger than his fleet combined. Larger than the moon over Taer Atlos, almost 10,000 km across and 20,000 km tall.
“Open a channel,” he commanded. And he waited for a response. It wasn’t long in coming.
“Shiram is dead then?” a cold, raspy voice asked over the comms.
“He was poisoned by an unknown enemy,” Rian responded.
“As is wont to happen when you’re Emperor,” the voice said in an almost jovial tone. “You will come aboard. Alone.”
“I will bring my personal guard,” he retorted.
The voice laughed a raspy humorless rasp. “You will come alone, Grand Admiral. Let’s not play these games today. You do not have the time.” The channel then went silent.
Rian ignored the looks from his bridge crew. Instead he gave command over to his second, and left the bridge. A shuttle was prepared for him and in minutes he was flying across to the station. The doors of it’s massive landing bay opened up like the jaws of a leviathan, and as he flew through he felt like he was being swallowed up.
He brought the shuttle down on the platform that had been cleared for him. A delegation was waiting to meet him. Two of them were human, in stiff black robes. Their lips were tattooed black, and their skin was pale. They had no hair atop their head, nor any eyebrows. The rest of the delegation was a motley gathering of aliens.
Rian wrinkled his nose at the sight of them and addressed the humans. “I am here to see the Solarch.”
He was not answered, but the two humans gestured and he followed where they led. They took a lift, and he was annoyed when the aliens crowded in with him. But he held his head up and would not show any sign of weakness.
The lift arrived and opened onto a long corridor, lit with holographic torches. One of the humans pointed to the large black doors at the far end. He took it to mean that was his destination. They did not follow him. The lift’s doors closed after he got off and he heard it slide away. So he was to go in alone?
There were no doorways off to either side so he marched down the hallway, his boot echoing among the gothic arches. He knew this was all designed to intimidate any visitors. He kept his head up and reached the doors.
He didn’t bother knocking. He was supreme commander of the Imperial Starfleet and he would not knock. He pushed the doors open and marched through.
He was surprised how small the room beyond was. It was maybe fifty paces across and a hundred deep. A single stone chair was placed in the middle of the room, and on it sat an old man. He wore the same stiff black robes as the two others, and his head was also shaved bald. But the caverns around his eyes were tattooed black in addition to his lips, and on his forehead a single tattoo of three interconnected hexagons.
“This will end in blood,” the old man said, his voice the same voice as on the comms before.
“As will all things,” Rian replied. “The Imperium stands on the brink and I will not be a part of its salvation.”
“What then? Will you be its damnation?”
“I will avenge my friend.”
The old man cackled, his voice echoing in the empty chamber. “Will you bathe the starways in blood? Will you enter the galaxy’s heart and squeeze? Your assurances and vows all ring hollow in the emptiness of the universe.”
“I did not come to be mocked,” Rian said through clenched jaw. He took a menacing step forward towards the old man.
“No, you came for easy answers and easier solutions. But the cathedral of Aramay does not offer either. Return to your Grand Patriarch and let him fill your heart with such empty words.”
Rian unclenched his jaw. It would do him no good to be riled up by this old man. He stepped back, taking a deep breath before he spoke again. “I am in need of the brotherhood. They have spies across the galaxy. Whatever they can find out about the ones who killed the Emperor…”
The old man held up his hand and Rian fell silent. “The brotherhood does not come cheap. Can you afford the cost?”
“Name it,” Rian said.
“You are too quick to answer, I think. Our price is a terrible one to pay. But I think you would pay it anyway.” The old man stood from his chair and placed his hands over the symbol tattooed on his forehead. “I will send the brotherhood to search out those you seek. If they find nothing you may go your own way, and I will collect no payment. But if they return with the answers you seek, then we will demand fair compensation. The Celestial Throne, and you upon it, an ally of the Cathedral of Aramay, public and open. Do you agree?”
Rian did not hesitate to answer. “Agreed,” he said solemnly.
Star Wars: The Imperial Suite x Imperial March (Medieval Style)
Imperial Palace
Grand Admiral Alecto Rian stormed into the private quarters of the Emperor, two stunned Legionaries following behind ordering him to halt. He ignored them, knowing they would not dare harm the supreme commander of the Imperial Starfleet.
Alshanah, the Emperor’s latest consort stepped between him and the door to the bedchamber. “He is not seeing anyone,” she said. While she put on a commanding voice, Rian saw her hands trembled.
“He is dying,” Rian said without slowing down. He would not be stopped. He pushed past the woman, and she gave way without any resistance. Rian was going to see his dearest friend before he passed, no matter the imperial protocol of keeping the Emperor’s illness a secret.
The Emperor, the strongest and mightiest man Rian had ever known, lay frail and gasping for breath in his canopied bed.
“My emperor, I have come,” Rian said, kneeling next to the bed. “I am sorry for breaking protocol.”
Shiram Morghanos turned his head on his pillows to see. His eyes were milky, sunken into his skull. His skin was taught over a fragile looking skeleton as he reached a hand out. “Alecto,” he spoke feebly. “I hoped you’d come. The disease has progressed and the physicians can do nothing to slow it now.”
Rian felt tears welling up in his eyes, seeing his friend in such a state. “I would trade my life if it would save yours,” he wailed. He gripped the Emperor’s hand as tightly as he dared, afraid he could easily hurt him.
Shiram’s hand went limp as he let out a long raspy breath. Rian let go of his hand which fell softly onto the Emperor’s chest. “Don’t say such noble drivel. The Imperium will need you now more than ever.”
He waved Rian closer. The Grand Admiral leaned in until he was nearly touching the Emperor’s face with his nose. “I will soon die,” he whispered, but a new strength had returned to his voice. “I have no living children to pass the Celestial Throne to…” his voice trailed off.
“Why did you not name an heir?” Rian asked.
The Emperor coughed. “They would have murdered them too, just like my children.”
“Who?”
“I know not. If I did I would have wiped them from the galaxy. Now, alas, it is too late. Whoever my enemies are I will never know. But they are the ones who poisoned me. Long I’ve fought it’s effects, but now it will win and I will die.” He grabbed onto Rian’s arm, squeezing hard. “The Imperium will soon tear itself apart as the Noble Houses scheme for the throne. My enemies will likely make their final move. When they reveal themselves, you must avenge me. Promise me.”
Rian gave his friend his promise. The Emperor released his arm and his eyes closed. The Grand Admiral feared he had passed right then, but soon there came labored breathing. Rian stood back up to let his friend rest. He would keep his word to his friend.
He called for Alshanah, the consort. “Tend him well, and when he passes, inform me first or face my wrath, woman.” He then stormed from the bedchamber. There were things to prepare.
Coarin,
Plains of Amalleth
The rains had come late this year. Hiram had worried of a drought which would kill the Rishmaz* and ruin the harvest. Now that the rains had come, he was worried flooding would do that instead.
The Archduke inspected the spillways and canals that criss crossed the plains, and the fields of grain growing across it. His flyer circled low over a place where the spill off threatened to overwhelm the walls of the canal and rush into the surrounding fields.
“There,” he pointed for his engineer to see. “That spot needs reinforcement.”
The engineer nodded, making another mark on the digital map on his display. “That makes thirty-nine total spots,” the engineer said. “I’ve got crews working on the first dozen, but I’m worried a breach will occur before we get them all.”
“I’ll send more of my men to help out,” Hiram said confidently. He was going to do his best to ensure the crop. Rishaz was an important commodity to the local economy, and it grew nowhere else on the planet. “Just have your people show them what to do…”
“Sorry to interrupt,” the flyer pilot said from the cockpit. “You are receiving an important message from the palace, Your Highness.”
“Tell them it can wait,” the Archduke responded irritably.
“They say it's a communication from the Imperial throne.”
Hiram sighed. Of course he’d receive an Imperial communication at a time where his attention was needed elsewhere. He gave the pilot the order to return to the palace, and for the other flyers nearby to continue circling the plains.
By time his flyer touched down at the palace landing pad he was in a sour mood. He hoped whatever the Emperor had to say was worth his time, and not another general admonition of the antics of the Noble Houses.
His Seneschal, Chaob Bashir, met him on the landing pad with an umbrella. “This better be worth my time,” Hiram roared over the rain.
Chaob, holding the umbrella over the Archduke as they hurried to the entrance to the palace responded, “Your cousin has passed away.”
Hiram came to a stop in the middle of the landing pad. He grabbed the Seneschal’s shoulder. “Shiram is dead?”
“The Imperial Palace has informed all the Archduke’s that the Emperor passed from a congenital illness. They will inform the Diet Galactica on the morrow.”
Hiram closed his eyes, a vision of his cousin in his youth rising up from his memories. Shiram had become emperor in his thirties, a rare thing for any emperor to ascend to the throne that young. That had been ninety-four years ago. Hiram hadn’t become Archduke for another forty years after that. They’d been close in their youth, but age and politics had driven a deep wedge between them. The last time they’d spoke, after a session of the Diet Galactica they had gotten into a heated argument that ended with the Emperor threatening to destroy house Drof-Antier, a piece at a time.
As the rain poured down around them, splattering off the ground and soaking the hems of his pants, he stood silently in reverence for a few moments to mourn his cousin’s passing. When he broke the silence it was to ask the most important question. “Did he name an heir?”
The seneschal shook his head. There had been no mention of an heir being named. Hiram turned and continued towards the palace. Once inside, out of the rain he began to pace around the small vestibule just inside the door. The seneschal shook out the umbrella onto the brown tiles and closed it up, dropping it in a holder next to the door.
“The Archduke’s will need to name a Regnier,” Hiram spoke to himself. The Seneschal just stood to the side, his hands clasped in front of him as he waited for the Archduke to finish thinking out loud. “But who to choose? Who from the thousands of nobles to pick? And who to name emperor?”
The Seneschal took the opportunity to interrupt. “Perhaps you, Your Highness,” he said. “You are Shiram’s cousin, a close familial relation that no other Archduke can claim.”
Hiram gave him a dismissive wave of his hand. “It’s a possibility, but that will likely make me the least popular candidate. No, this will cause chaos and confusion. The Imperium may very well tear itself apart over this.” He paced back and forth, muttering names of potential Regnier’s. Chaob noticed a number of them were allied with the Archduke, or would at least be counted on to support his claim to the throne, should he press it. The Seneschal smiled, wondering how many of the other Archdukes were having similar discussions, and naming candidates that were loyal to them.
“I’ve got it,” Hiram said, turning to the Seneschal so fast he stepped back in surprise. “Prepare my delegation. We will travel to Taer Atlos within the hour. With any luck we’ll beat everyone else there. And try to get word to Count Taschal to meet me at the Diet Galactica.”
“Adammar Taschal?” Chaob asked for clarification.
“Indeed,” Hiram responded as he turned and raced from the room. “I’ll need his support.”
*Rishmaz: a type of grain used in the fermentation of strong beverages. It also has medicinal benefits.
Taer Atlos,
In Orbit
Grand Admiral Rian had received word of Shiram’s death an hour before the Diet Galactica did. The consort had at least done as she was commanded. Likely out of fear, but that still worked for him. By time the Diet, and its ministers tried contacting him, he was finished with his preparations.
The orders came through. “You are to prepare to defend Taer Atlos over the coming days,” the message said. He just turned his communicator off and gave the order.
The fleet engaged their transwarp drives, and one by one they flashed away into the starry sky. The massive warships, the carriers, the cruisers, even the smallest corvettes and frigates. Gone. Only the local defense forces remained. Once people on the planet knew they were gone there was panic.
But Rian didn’t care about any chaos he was leaving behind. The Imperial Starfleet was his to command, and he would not let it be a tool of the Diet, or the Noble Houses who would soon be positioning for the throne. All across the Imperium ships abandoned their positions, transwarping away to who knows where.
They had a number of systems, out of the way and little known that they would rendezvous at. But the bulk of the fleet, which had been guarding the Imperial Capital, had it’s on destination.
They arrived in a trinary system, the three giant suns blasting them with solar radiation and tidal forces. Alarms blared on Rian’s command ship as the shields cycled, attempting to compensate. But his people knew what to do and they quickly brought the ship onto a course between the suns, coming out into an area relatively clear of the forces beating against the ship. The rest of the fleet followed.
Rian watched the ship’s sensor readings. He clenched his fists, forcing down his anticipation. He needed to be calm. At last the sensors picked up what he was looking for. A massive space station, riding gently on the eddy of solar forces. It was larger than his fleet combined. Larger than the moon over Taer Atlos, almost 10,000 km across and 20,000 km tall.
“Open a channel,” he commanded. And he waited for a response. It wasn’t long in coming.
“Shiram is dead then?” a cold, raspy voice asked over the comms.
“He was poisoned by an unknown enemy,” Rian responded.
“As is wont to happen when you’re Emperor,” the voice said in an almost jovial tone. “You will come aboard. Alone.”
“I will bring my personal guard,” he retorted.
The voice laughed a raspy humorless rasp. “You will come alone, Grand Admiral. Let’s not play these games today. You do not have the time.” The channel then went silent.
Rian ignored the looks from his bridge crew. Instead he gave command over to his second, and left the bridge. A shuttle was prepared for him and in minutes he was flying across to the station. The doors of it’s massive landing bay opened up like the jaws of a leviathan, and as he flew through he felt like he was being swallowed up.
He brought the shuttle down on the platform that had been cleared for him. A delegation was waiting to meet him. Two of them were human, in stiff black robes. Their lips were tattooed black, and their skin was pale. They had no hair atop their head, nor any eyebrows. The rest of the delegation was a motley gathering of aliens.
Rian wrinkled his nose at the sight of them and addressed the humans. “I am here to see the Solarch.”
He was not answered, but the two humans gestured and he followed where they led. They took a lift, and he was annoyed when the aliens crowded in with him. But he held his head up and would not show any sign of weakness.
The lift arrived and opened onto a long corridor, lit with holographic torches. One of the humans pointed to the large black doors at the far end. He took it to mean that was his destination. They did not follow him. The lift’s doors closed after he got off and he heard it slide away. So he was to go in alone?
There were no doorways off to either side so he marched down the hallway, his boot echoing among the gothic arches. He knew this was all designed to intimidate any visitors. He kept his head up and reached the doors.
He didn’t bother knocking. He was supreme commander of the Imperial Starfleet and he would not knock. He pushed the doors open and marched through.
He was surprised how small the room beyond was. It was maybe fifty paces across and a hundred deep. A single stone chair was placed in the middle of the room, and on it sat an old man. He wore the same stiff black robes as the two others, and his head was also shaved bald. But the caverns around his eyes were tattooed black in addition to his lips, and on his forehead a single tattoo of three interconnected hexagons.
“This will end in blood,” the old man said, his voice the same voice as on the comms before.
“As will all things,” Rian replied. “The Imperium stands on the brink and I will not be a part of its salvation.”
“What then? Will you be its damnation?”
“I will avenge my friend.”
The old man cackled, his voice echoing in the empty chamber. “Will you bathe the starways in blood? Will you enter the galaxy’s heart and squeeze? Your assurances and vows all ring hollow in the emptiness of the universe.”
“I did not come to be mocked,” Rian said through clenched jaw. He took a menacing step forward towards the old man.
“No, you came for easy answers and easier solutions. But the cathedral of Aramay does not offer either. Return to your Grand Patriarch and let him fill your heart with such empty words.”
Rian unclenched his jaw. It would do him no good to be riled up by this old man. He stepped back, taking a deep breath before he spoke again. “I am in need of the brotherhood. They have spies across the galaxy. Whatever they can find out about the ones who killed the Emperor…”
The old man held up his hand and Rian fell silent. “The brotherhood does not come cheap. Can you afford the cost?”
“Name it,” Rian said.
“You are too quick to answer, I think. Our price is a terrible one to pay. But I think you would pay it anyway.” The old man stood from his chair and placed his hands over the symbol tattooed on his forehead. “I will send the brotherhood to search out those you seek. If they find nothing you may go your own way, and I will collect no payment. But if they return with the answers you seek, then we will demand fair compensation. The Celestial Throne, and you upon it, an ally of the Cathedral of Aramay, public and open. Do you agree?”
Rian did not hesitate to answer. “Agreed,” he said solemnly.
Star Wars: The Imperial Suite x Imperial March (Medieval Style)
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