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Tales from the Lost as told by Kodiak Ash of The First Galactic Empire

11-26-2491 Centauri Prime - The last cannons ceased their fire as what is being referred to as the "30 day war" ended today. Beginning a month ago above the native Centauri Prime world Hyperion, the renown First Galactic Empire was victorious in humanity's struggle against the mysterious race known only as The Shadows. The First Galactic Empire first arrived in Centauri Prime early last year, and immediately began conquering it's enemies, The Legion of Scorpion Pirates. Originally thought just another invader ravaging an already splintered system, recent efforts have proven themselves to be perhaps humanity's best hope against the merciless enemy that had rent Centauri Prime asunder.

Immediately following the fall of the last colony, Fleet Admiral Kodiakash of the First Galactic Empire made an announcement regarding the recent war.

"Today the brave forces of Operation: Lightbringer were victorious over the Shadows. The war lasted a surprisingly short time, and ended with minimal loss to human lives. Currently all hostile Shadow forces have been removed from the system. In the wake of the Shadow attacks and the consequent 'land grab' numerous fleets were also left stranded and left without orders. Such fleets have been removed from Centauri Prime space and their threat removed. The emperor will make a more encompassing announcement later, thank you."

In an interview with one of the Cobra pilots, Captain Zaroff, a new light was shown on these seemingly invincible invaders.

"These 'Shadows' ain't jack and . Hell, my squadron alone scrapped six of 'em bigger ships ourselves. Why these natives couldn't get the job done is beyond this soldier, just makes me proud to be part of the Empire. Their use of Capital ships seems intimidatin' at first but they go down like any other pilot I ever fought in my years of service. , they even abandoned one of their colonies as we arrived to it! I don't see nothing special 'bout 'em..."

Centauri Prime is filled with tension now with only two major empires remaining within it's space. Already, diplomats of the Hookers and Beer and First Galactic Empire are already meeting to discuss the current situation of the system and it's defenses. It is already thought that the Shadows will return to the system and preparations are already under away to counter act that new threat as early warning systems are being placed and potential spies removed. Transports and Prison Holds are moving constantly within the system currently as preparations have already begun.

However, we here at the ISN are not so sure about The Shadows and what they may bring. This mysterious race has proven to be victorious in nearly all it's dealings prior to Operation: Lightbringer and may even choose to target the softer targets of the new Faction Homeworlds being established still even after years after the Shadows first attacks. For such a discussion we leave it to our show coming up next ISN: Night Line hosted by Taggert Jones...

*The Report fades out and into ISN: Night Line....*

We shall bring light to dark places

Tales from Genesis as told by Aerious of Hookers and Beer

The admiral sat deep within the Flagship. He looked over the battle plan again. They had been here before and all hands were lost. He would not make the same mistake the other commanders had made. He would not under estimate the Shadows. Slowly he went over the events that happened months ago...

Everything was going according to plan, the fleets had smashed through the Shadow blockade with minimal losses. They had orbited Narn and were ready to invade. The crews were flush with confidence after the first battle. Little did they know they were about to invade hell. The invasion started as planned, but shortly afterwards things went wrong. The Shadows had heavy AA batteries, they had missile launchers and what was worse, they had ships. Lots and lots of ships. The fleet was understaffed with bombers and gunboats. The first fleet was full of fighters.. fighters that were easy targets. It was over in scant hours. The glorious Elecry Invasion was defeated. Not just defeated but completely wiped out of the universe. After the bombers, gunboats and fighters were destroyed the Shadows swarmed from Narn and overwhelmed the Carriers and Corvettes. All hands were lost. No survivors.

The high command was in chaos, total defeat had shaken the confidence of the whole empire. The set back was almost ruinous. But, slowly, ever so slowly high command had rebuilt. The homeworld had contributed massive amounts of resources towards vengence. Retribution would be had, they would fight until Narn falls.

The admiral remembered, he knew the history of Narn. The Shadows had conquered a small Elecrian outpost and enslaved the people to work in Narn. Elecry doesn't forget, though the Empire's name has changed, every Elecrian would not forget the brave souls first enslaved and conquered, then the fleet sent to rescue them destroyed. He had lost friends during both battles. Today he would set it right. Narn would be conquered.

Though he had doubts, he walked the halls of the Flagship and smiled at his crew. They were hard at work readying last minute details before the strike. He would project confidence, they needed to see he had no doubts. No matter what ghosts crossed his mind, he WOULD not let his crew see anything but strength. Everything was ready, now was the time. There was nothing left to do but signal the attack.

All hands to battle stations. All hands to battle stations. The red alert went out to the fleet.

The admiral addressed his fleet, "Today we bring the light. Justice will be served with the blinding light of retribution. Good luck and godspeed."

The admiral watches his gunboats and fighters stream from the heavy carriers. He watched his corvettes and destroyers take position. He looked out towards the planet and as he saw flashes of explosions he thought, IT BEGINS!

If you put yourself between us and our objectives, you may come to regret it.

Mister Morden gazed at the rubble formerly known as the thriving planet of Do Pacem. It had been a home world of some sort, he did not remember which Faction, and he did not particularly care. It no longer mattered. It belonged to the Shadows now, just as he belonged to the Shadows. Once that line was crossed, very little else seemed to matter.
It was only a matter of time before the rest of the system fell to the unyielding fury of his “associates.” He smiled a little at the thought of the “Shadow Coalition,” as Haier had said. It was a bitter smile, full of memories of the past, of a different life and a different person, one who had not been burnt by trying to fly too close to the sun. Yes, the “Shadow Coalition” was useful to his associates for the moment, and so its members were generally left alone, with a few breadcrumbs thrown their way to keep them in line willingly.
He stared into the horizon, seeing not the view of destruction but the man he once was, so many years ago, back when he could still consider himself human. The Shadows were the masters of many races, technologies, and skills, but their power of persuasion was still their strongest asset. They would offer gifts, and petty baubles, and promises of granted dreams beyond wildest imagination. If accepted they would deliver on their promises, using only a portion of their full strength, while gaining trust and building reliance upon their continued support. Once you were positioned where they wanted you, there was no turning back from the path; your soul was theirs whether you willed it or no.
Those who resisted the promises of riches were offered a different arrangement entirely. This had been his course. No promises of dreams, no web of politics to pull the desired victim into the proper desperation, only a simple and final offer. Eternal service to the Shadows was the payment, and in return they would provide a gift that was half-threat, half priceless.

The right to live.

Very few from his expedition on the Icarus had accepted that arrangement; Mister Morden could count himself on that short list. Life was a gift more precious than anything, or so he had always believed, although sometimes he did wonder if life serving the Shadows was life at all. They treated him well, providing him a level of comfort and respect greater than he had ever known. He was permitted his own free will, and his advice and opinions with regards to the younger races were frequently sought out by his Shadow masters. He had certainly come to appreciate the constant company of the two cloaked Shadows who followed him everywhere, although whether they were meant to be guards or guardians, he could not determine. Despite all the latitude he was allowed, the philosophy of the Shadows colored everything.
Yes, this “Shadow Coalition” was useful to his associates, for the moment, but the Shadows never allied with anyone, not even himself. The Coalition would be permitted to take advantage of the political and strategic advantages provided by their arrangement with the Shadows, so long as they continued to allow the philosophy of the Shadows guide them in their actions. As soon as their choices began to vary from his associates’ desires, he would not give two credits for their chances of survival. That was, after all, the agreement, in the end.

Serve the Shadows, or Die.

Morden smiled, more the smile of a hungry barracuda than a sentient gesture of happiness, and laughed.

Live from FILMORE ASTEROID

Tales from Genesis as told by Wystan of the Legion of Scorpion Pirates

Well the Concert for Centauri Prime is over. If you missed it, you're probably no worse off than the millions of people who 'saw' the concert. Twelve deaths, two hundred injuries, sixty-eight births, about a thousand three-hundred and eleven epiphanies later, and over five hundred million credits spent (some might say wasted); the Concert for Centauri Prime leaves Filmore Asteroid what is essentially a wreck.

The concert began on July 1st, 2488. Organized by Genesis President Wystan, it has been called the longest music festival since Greenstock. Of course, Wystan's message was peace, to point out not only the failure of the factions to adequately communicate, but Genesis' own failings, the plight of the refugees from the violence of the wars, and to also expose that Association President deserteagle has plans to conquer the other factions and lead suicide attacks against the Shadows.

Those not familiar with current events might remember Wystan as the eclectic band leader of the rock band Green Rangers, and later the CEO of the Green Ranger Electric Recording Company. The Green Rangers are the greatest rock band ever, easily outselling Unitology Gospel-Rock band Nomine Patris and Xanaphian Death Metal Emocore band Bleeding Gangrene-Infested Flesh Wounds. Records such as Green on Green, Born to Gun, and Greenstock Calling outsold every single album. Noted for their extreme versatility, able to traverse all categories of rock that aren't crap; the Green Rangers eventually stopped recording and touring together, as the bands' personal wealth became representative of everything wrong with the recording industry. Wystan's attempt to revive rock and roll in this universe went horribly awry, and when he lost his drummer, he was forced to disband his band.

While Greenstock is considered the greatest concert ever played, and featured an after concert/party as the band members rocked out in other places across Greenstock; Wystan's pinnacle of artistic perfection was the Space Battle Opera performed by fleets over Greenstock, simply title "War Frenzy".

The Concert for Centauri Prime doesn't reach those same heights, especially since Filmore Asteroid has no atmosphere, and Wystan wished to protect music fans from the debris of a space battle. Instead, it has an earthier feel, none of the music was recorded, everything was live. While there were any number of workshops and performances, Wystan's last performance of the festival is the focus of this article, particularly because it featured a number of unreleased songs.

The performance began with a rare halt in the playing, and the lights on all stages went dark. A lot of us in the Tumbling Meteor section were of the opinion that the concert goers were incapable of being worked into a frenzy, but we were quickly proved wrong as many seemed to go into music withdrawal in the relative silence. Shouts to "play some frakking music!" were lobbed, along with some shoes, and various drug paraphernalia. The equipment buzzed, and voices could be faintly heard with the microphones still on. A guitar was plugged in, annoying the audience. A single bass note was struck.

And in the midst of the jeers of the crowd, a person stepped to the mike, and said "Hello, I'm Sam Wystan."

The spotlight quickly illuminated him, as the audience cheered and roared. Wystan stood there and basked in it briefly, his harmonica brace at the ready, his guitar humming.

"Shut the frak up," he growled, "I wanna play a rock song." The crowd, of course, went wild.

He then launched into a one-man version of "Bad Little Daggit", obviously playfully admonishing the crowd. However, it could be considered a protest against the myriad members of the universe who seek only personal gain.

He came to the end of the song and as he struck that first signature chord of "I Feel Frakked", the band behind him started up. The bass exploded over the crowd deafening many of these stoned out pseudo-hippies. Futures and Rollers were singing side by side, the basic rock structure resonated with fans of all rock.

This wasn't the collaborative rock of the Green Rangers days. It was what Wystan wanted to play, stuff like the mockingly biting "Do Pacem Planet Preservation Society", "Colonies Made of Sand", "Like A Traveling Comet", and "Jumpin' Jack Solarflare". The band was in top form, quarter-note crescendos crashing out of the drums with a force to be reckoned with. There were bass solos, a constant fiddle, a mandolin adding a bluegrass twang, and the rough vocals of the performers gave a grit that struck your soul.

Blues-rock figured prominently. "My Last Fair Deal Gone Down", "Killing Floor", "Sanctuary Blues", and "Outside Android Blues" all were stellar performances, given extra star power by the appearance of Blues Messiah Blind Bill Quasar.

One of the most damning songs was the Genesian backwater-rock tune "There Ain't No Unitos on ChongoplusGrae Forever". Wystan's heavy voice and crying harmonica, along with the mournful lead guitar and fiddle lent the song a downtrodden air that captivated the audience, and surprisingly there were no catcalls to speed up the playing. Wystan did, launching into the ancient song "We Gotta Get Out of This Place", a call to continue colonizing, and not pin our hopes on Centauri Prime.

The rambling "So Long Haier, Emp'ror" sent out a mocking message to those who have lost their homeworld colonies, and a mourning for the loss of honest leaders. However, "This System Is Your System" was a rocking version of a folk song that gave warning to those who would attempt to take Centauri Prime away from its rightful owners, all the factions.

Wystan went on to play his major hits, "Lost In the Asteroid Field", "Born to Gun", "Visions of Xanaphia", and "Greenstock Calling". The last number brought the playing to a roar, and the refrain of "Greenstock Calling!" was shouted out by the crowd in a fit of jubilation.

The penultimate song was "Stranger in A Strange Land", a very ancient song, and the version here paid homage to those traveling through the universe. This version lasted well over five hours.

The final song, was "Centauri" and its opening lines of "My friend came to me, with sadness in his eyes,/He told me that he wanted help,/Before his planet dies," brought back the purpose of the concert. Raising awareness that something bad is going to go down soon enough. It's the kind of pessimistic we've come to expect from Wystan.

One thing is for sure though. President Wystan can rock.



Grey Marker is editor of the Tumbling Meteor concert review section.

Editor's Note: We appreciate the irony of having the benefit concert for the system prior to the attack. Wystan is a Rock and Roll Prophet, after all.

A good landing is one you walk away from. A great landing is one where they can use the fighter again.

Tales from Genesis as told by Wystan of the Legion of Scorpion Pirates

First Lieutenant Neil Cooper stood on the deck of one of the UES Republican's viewing rooms and gazed out into space. He lit his cigar shakily. His right arm was still bandaged from the battle before. His shirt sleeve's buttons had popped open and they revealed the massive black burn that was his right arm. He disliked seeing it. He didn't remember it happening. Or even feeling it. One minute he was piloting his fighter along the edge of a carrier and the next minute there was a blinding flash, and his wing commander was ordering him back to the flight deck. He didn't know how he had landed. Probably the pilot's suit. It was there to keep injecting adrenaline into the body when some trauma happened. That's pretty much all it did. If you went into space, it'd fill you up with saline solution, keep your body in stasis until someone found you.

He couldn't remember if he'd crashed into the flight deck, or landed fine. He'd seen his cockpit afterwards. The yoke had split in half. Most of the controls had exploded. They'd shown him his helmet. It was a massive array of burn streaks and shrapnel. He hadn't even felt it. He remembered only the top of his cockpit blasting off in the fighter bay, and as he attempted to exit the fighter, his right arm had given way, almost like it wasn't there. He'd fallen six feet to the deck floor. A medic later told him he'd only sustained bruising from it. But it hurt.

He remembered being carried towards the med center on a stretcher. They'd laid him on the floor. Then a girl had been laid next to him, someone he vaguely remembered from the wing commander's briefings. She was bleeding from the neck pretty bad, and suddenly she was coughing blood and a large piece of shrapnel. Apparently that had been the only thing slowing the blood flow. Suddenly, red blood blossomed across the floor and started soaking into his stretcher and jacket. And the girl was gone. Neil vaguely remembered vomiting at the sight of her blood stained jaw and neck... and the bloody shrapnel piece. He didn't even know her name.

He took a pull from his cigar, looking at the debris field now settling into orbit that was the sole monument to the battle of Centauri Prime.

They'd been told the Shadows had arrived. Warning klaxons had sounded throughout the Republican, and people had scrambled to their posts. The wing commander gave orders as they ran, outlining the situation in just one word: "Shadows." "Frak 'em up," he'd said. He hadn't come back after the battle was over. Someone said they thought they'd heard him go down. But Captain Stuart was dead as far as anyone was concerned. And Neil was nominally in charge.

Goddamn. They'd flown into hell. You'd catch a glimmer of them as they drifted past, some fighter chasing down a friendly. Seemed like every color was there, everyone except the enemy. It was tough to target anything, let alone an enemy fighter that seemed to have no discernible shape or color. You'd fire at the strange thing, and hope to god everyone got the message.

Comms had been so screwed up. Something weird had come over the radios, "what do you want?" had played in his head for what seemed like an eternity. It hadn't stopped until the shooting did. Communications had been run over it, and so had ship announcements. It was coming over loudspeakers in the Republican itself. It was on every telephone line, except for the closed systems that couldn't be connected to except through certain places. Every receiver had been hit by it. It had displayed across computers and television screens. "What do you want?"

"I want my frakking arm back," Neil said to no one in particular. They'd told him it was ruined. They only had a few options. Try and heal the best the could, all sorts of pain killers, leave him with a burned out ruin of an arm that'd leave most of his hand limp; or they could chop it and replace it with some robotic piece. Take months off to get it to the point where he could write with it. It'd been too late to do both: replace the ruined bits with robotics and heal the working parts. When the medics had got to him, the wound was mostly charred remains.

He guessed he was off duty now. Or out of work. What could an ex-pilot do? Help trainees pass their written exams? Become a quartermaster? He remembered a buddy who'd lost his legs in a gas tank explosion. When they'd told him he couldn't fly, he'd gone crazy. Spiraled deep into depression. Took enough drugs to outpace his pension. One night he drank himself into a stupor, and then put his service pistol in his mouth. Neil didn't want to be him.

Commander Bruce Morrison tapped him on the shoulder. Bruce was a tough X.O., and had seen a bit of action way out at Alpha-A6-S83-Central #2.

"How you feeling, Neil?" he asked in his rough voice.

"Like I don't give a damn, Bruce" replied Neil.

"How's your arm feeling then?"

Neil looked at it again. "Like an overdone chicken wing."

Morrison chuckled. But it was the half-hearted chuckle of someone who'd never been in that situation. And it died awkwardly. The two men just stared at the debris field, a haunting silence hanging between them like a noose.

"I guess I should go lie down," said Neil, turning to leave. He suddenly wanted to get out of the room. "Doc says that I should get some sleep."

"Don't leave yet, Neil," said Morrison, "we've got to talk about something."

"What?" asked Neil.

But Morrison turned back to space, and gazed for another minute.

"What?" asked Neil in a sterner voice.

Morrison gave a fully bodied sigh. "You've got two options, Neil. We can keep you on as a command officer. Find you something simple, like communications or strategic planning. Somewhere we can utilize what you learned at the Academy. Find something good. But you'll have to chop the arm. Get a robotic one. Retrain for basic stuff. I don't know if we can pay you for the training, but you'll receive some kind of injury benefit."

Neil was nonplussed. "What's the other option?"

"We discharge you. You're given your walking papers, and you go home."

"I don't have a home," Neil said.

"I know. That's why you've got to take the first option. Get rid of the arm. It's not doing you any good, and it's just a liability to your health. You chop it, you can probably make it to commander or colonel. Be an X.O. one day, or command your own vessel."

"No," said Neil.

"Please, Neil. Do the smart thing! You just fought your first battle. Our entire fighter wing just fought its first battle. We need you to stay. You actually have experience. You can do something. Think about it."

Neil paused. He thought about his comrades, the survivors who had come to congratulate him and celebrate the victory in the med center.

"No. I'll never be able to fly with them again. And I'll never have more experience than that one fight. There are plenty of other ex-pilots you can get to help your wing. But I didn't chop my arm the first time they gave me the option. I'm not going to chop it now."

"Is your arm really worth that?" asked Morrison.

"My arm is worth more than this damn war," Neil told him.

"What will you do?" asked Morrison.

"I'll figure something out," replied Neil. And with that he tossed the cigar into the ashtray and left the room, his boots clicking on the cold metal floor, Commander Morrison framed by the stars.

We Will Draw a Line Against the Darkness

Tales from Genesis as told by fishstick of Elecry

The Admiral knew the time had come. He had and his men had sat back idly for too long, Mister Morden was gaining ground far more rapidly than he had ever imagined. At this rate, The Shadows will absorb the homeworlds of every people in a matter of months. The fools will just let them in and surrender their worlds without a fight, not realizing that surrender will only fuel an even more powerful and aggressive Shadow war machine.

The Prince knew that surrender was not an option, and he would not let The Shadows simply march in and take the populous faction homeworlds without a fight. A glorious fight.

Scrambling to his comm center, the Admiral began relaying messages to several leaders and friends and found that he was not alone in his sentiment to keep the homeworlds out of Mister Morden’s evil hands. Some had already begun preparations for defense and shared his fervor to halt the Shadows advance. He was ecstatic at this surprising discovery, and began immediate preparations of his own in an effort to make sure his contemporaries were not alone in their battles.

Several days later, the Admiral stood in front of a motley crew of troops ready to board their ships.

“The Shadows will not enter this system until every last one of you is dead. Your wives, your mothers, and your children all depend on you. The only surrender you will offer, is the surrender to Unitos after your ship is torn to shreds and your entrails are strewn across the galaxy. Fear not men, because in the time after death, nothing comforts a man like glory, and, if The Shadows attack, glory you shall have.”

With moist eyes, the Admiral watched as his men loyally trudged off to board their ships. Then he turned his back on his homeworld and boarded his own vessel as it took off to join the fleet.

Wall Drawing from an Early Crusader Tomb

Tales from the Crusaders as told by Hobbes of Flammable Zombies

It was odd, reflected one villager. They were dressed like priests, but they clearly were not priests. For one thing, priests didn't carry whomping big swords. They also tended not to clank under the robes. The villager was old enough to remember the Oracles of Unitos and their apostles that had seeded the land constantly with praying, constantly taking credit for the minor miracles of the every day.

"Unitos is in all of us," they would say. "In the way a bumblebee flies-" this was, of course, despite the fact bumblebees existed only on a handful of worlds and on some they were the size of large dogs "-in the way the wind blows through the trees and moves the grain in the field. Unitos is in everything."

These wolves in priests' clothing were different though. There was a pair of them and they didn't have any nice words. They marched into the center of the village during the middle of the market hour and one took out a horn and blew it long and loud. The villagers, who assumed anyone from outside the village ate dirt for entertainment and banged rocks together for music, briefly looked up.

The Fishmonger turned and whispered to the Architect (hey, it's a vocation too. He had a marketplace stall, in any event), "Crusaders."

"Who are -" began the Architect, totally interrupting his hawking of wares. ("Get yer architecture here! 50% off on Dorian columns! Two for the price of one!") Unfortunately, his question was interrupted by the two men at the center of the marketplace.

"Right," said the bigger of the two (measured in height, not, you know... other things). "Listen up folks! My name is Brother Hook. This is Brother Cleaver," he said, indicating the smaller of the two men (again, height. Height). The crowd gathered, but it didn't say anything.

"Right," said Brother Hook. "We're Crusaders. I know you haven't seen us before, we're old but we're new, if you know what I mean. As of this moment, you're all converts to Xanaphianism."

The village's Mayor, a fervent Unitologist leapt out of his watchful stupor. "Here, you can't do that. You haven't got any author-"

The heads of the gathered villagers turned in one motion to follow the gentle arc of the Mayor's head as it suddenly leapt off his shoulders and into the air. Brother Cleaver sheathed his weapon.

"We're not really big on words," said Brother Hook. "Or arguements, for that matter. Now you all be good little Xanaphians and go away and pray for deliverance."

"Er..." began someone tucked away safely in the crowd (it'd take a few good swings for Brother Cleaver to hit him). "Deliverance from what?"

Hook smiled a smile that one could believe ate people. "Deliverance from us," he said.

Danger Lurks in the Shadows

Mister Morden surveyed the wreckage with absolute calm and a small, satisfied smile. The foolish settlers of hoserkid's Empire had expected to be able to sneak in while his associates were dormant, and build a colony without being noticed. Jason had hoped, especially considering the colony's name, that an agreement could be reached, but of course the agreement never materialized, and Mister Morden was sent to clean up the mess. Jason never took these assignments, preferring to send Mister Morden and to keep his own hands clean of the mess.

Not that Morden minded, of course... He had become accustomed to the task, the iron fist in the velvet glove, and had actually started to enjoy it.

He returned his attention to the sniveling colonists in front of him, the survivors of the military bombardment who wished they had died instead. He gave a half-hearted attempt at a soothing smile, knowing full well that it would not work anyway, considering the array of aliens and strange medical equipment behind him.

"You should be honored. The opportunity to join the Shadow war machine is a once in a life time chance. You will each be given your own command in one of our ships. Of course, first we must make a few... 'alterations.'"

He smiled at them again before walking back to his office, this time his smile conveying a fierce, merciless threat against the future. He left behind their cries of terror, knowing their fear and desperation up until the alterations were complete would only aid their conversion from people to weapons. He nodded to the chief scientist before stepping out the door, and into the war-torn silence of the compound.

This is the fifth game instance of Warring Factions and currently the second active one. It is quite a rough universe.
Some of you will recognize the instance name and some references to a certain TV show in this round. It is a tribute to Babylon 5. It is still 90% Warring Factions and 10% Babylon 5. Please stop asking if we have Vorlons. However, the Shadows have managed to recruit quite a few Mr. Mordens already.

"If you go to Z'Ha'Dum, you will die." - Kosh

Space lit up again, causing the small fighter to shudder violently in protest. Lysed pulled his attention away from the battle outside to check his ship’s status and grimaced. The primitive auto-repair systems had managed to keep him in the air far longer than he had imagined possible, but they were reaching their limit. If he was lucky, he could survive one more shot like that; a second shot would most certainly finish him.
He returned his concentration to the battle just in time to see one of the colonizers he was defending filling his cockpit window. Cursing his moment of distraction he pulled away, barely missing the hull, fighting the blackout that tried to claim his senses and his life. He could not afford to lose his concentration. His orders had been very clear: Defend the Colonizers. No matter the costs, the civilians must be evacuated.
Saying a quick prayer to Xanaphia he threw his fighter back into the thick of the battle, darting in and out of the devastating fire, born of the desperation of both sides in a desperate bid for control of the future, striking down any enemy fighter he could lock on to. The fighter was essentially a flying deathtrap, built to maximize armaments and speed with minimal defense on its own, forced to rely solely on its maneuverability and firepower for survival. She was a good ship, but against these odds, her chances of survival were slim.
As if in answer to his train of though, the enemy managed to score another hit on his frantic fighter. The cacophony of warning alerts filling his ears, Commander Lysed Rikeik whispered the name “Musako” regretfully into the air, and the universe went dark.

Lysed awoke in a cold sweat, fists clenched, heart pounding. It had been two months, and still the nightmare haunted his dreams. They had miraculously found his fighter drifting dead in space, the life support almost drained, and while he knew he should be grateful for his survival, his existence now seemed empty and pointless. They had told him that one of the colonizers had escaped the Shadow forces encircling the Homeworld; the other two were torn apart mercilessly, killing all aboard. He sighed sadly, forcing himself to accept the loss of his precious Musako once again, before calling in his aide. “Lieutenant!”
“Faction Council Meeting again today, Sir?” the young man asked, appearing sharply in the doorframe, Lysed’s dress uniform in hand. Lysed accepted the proffered uniform before grunting the affirmative. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Sir, I don’t see the point in all these meetings. The Shadows have a strong blockade out there, and we don’t have the technology or the resources to defeat them. We can barely hold out on our own as it is. I mean…” The young man’s eyes flickered a moment of sorrow before continuing. “I know they killed your wife, Sir, but we can’t ask all the faction leaders to put all their effort into fighting a losing battle for your own personal revenge… We should resume our attempts to slip colonizers through the blockades, instead of wasting our resources on these pointless attempts to kill them. We need to rebuild and regroup before we can succeed in wiping them out. This blockade they have on our Homeworld is not their only base of operations… We have no idea what forces are outside the home system. We need to expand if we want to even have a chance to defeat them completely…” The Lieutenant paused, awaiting a reply from his superior. Finding none, he made one last attempt. “How many times must we try to unite to kill off the Shadow forces around the Homeworld before we can move on?”
Lysed pulled his collar shut and gazed at the Lieutenant coldly. “Until we succeed.”

A fatal threat