Sowing the Seeds for the Future

[Mr. Slate]

"And furthermore no signs of beasts have shown in any of our reports this quarter."

"Thank you for that, Mr. Clementine. Mr. Viridian, what do you have to report?"

"Progress with our neighbors is developing by leaps and bounds. The Redcerans and Sinjin have been very accepting of our trade negotiations. The Valkerians on the other hand are understandably hesitant. We will continue to assuage their misgivings. The Ringed Fleet has shut down all discussions and had threatened us with death should we come near. This has strengthened our ties to Redcera and Kromac 7, who are equally at odds with the Ringed Fleet. Should the Ringed Fleet provoke either of them then our support could be enough to seal a lasting alliance."

"I would never pray for such calamity. Thank you Mr. Viridian. Did you have something to add, Arbiter?"

Viridian had not even begun to take his seat before Mr. Slate was out of his. The elder Guardian looked around the table with his one intact eye. The commanders from every hunting party sat gathering around the enormous table; most reduced to ghostly blue holograms communicating from distant starships from the midst of their hunts. At it's head the Master of the Hunt watched with sharp eyes set in a weathered young face. The lodge around them was a storied place full of trophies of past hunts; pelts, weapons, stuffed lupines, and massive artworks depicting famous battles. It was a holy place almost as old as their way of life.

And today that reverence felt betrayed.

"All this talk of growing industry, of trade routes and cooperation, and yet more Hunting Parties are called back home and not a single trace of a beast has been found in months? Have we forgotten what our mission is?"

"Precisely. My party has grossed from one side of the galaxy to the next on this rotation and have seen nothing of our enemy. We cannot spend our resources on fruitless hunts. It's a waste of resources."

"Then may I be as bold as to suggest that you are not looking hard enough, Mr. Clementine. The Lawbringers Hunting Party under my command routinely locates and roots out wolf dens. The foul beast are out there. We cannot rest until they are exterminated."

"Slate." the Huntmaster's voice was calm. It was always too damn calm. "I appreciate your vigor and dedication, but there is a new reality that must be acknowledged. The hunt has been the core of our identity since Balog Vrashn wrestled our freedom from the hands of the Lupines. However, we cannot let the hunt consume us. All this time the Hunt has fueled our society, our industry, and with it's waning so does our way of life. For a hundred years we have devoted every soul to the Hunt, produced more weapons than we have hands to hold them, and stockpiled for a confrontation that will never be. The Lupine Empire is over, and it will never recover. They are no longer a threat to us. Poverty and famine are. Our predecessors stripped our worlds of resources to fuel the Hunt, and if we continue to do so than we condemn ourselves to ruin.

We cannot continue to isolate ourselves. Wild Space shrinks with every day and it will not be long before the Empire is on our doorstep. We must do what is necessary to survive in a galactic arena; forge alliances with whom we can shelter against the storm together. Expand, grow, and seed colonies. It is unfortunate that we must trade sword and whip for plowshare and scythe, but it is necessary to the survival of our people. Do you understand, Slate? The Hunt is not over, but it cannot be our singular focus."

"Our enemies will only grow in our absence. That one-eyed witch and the traitor will continue to consolidate their power, and she will come for us. It's in her nature."

"And when she does we will have allies to aid us in the conflict."

"Allies that you wish to grovel before? To throw trinkets at their feet? We have been the dominant force in this sector for a hundred years. The Redcerans and Sinjin should cower before us, not demand a place at our table. Our ancestors would have destroy the Ringed Fleet for it's insolence, and burned Valkeria once more to ash."

"What would you have us do; march on our neighbors and enslave them? Should we continue the cycle; Should we become the monsters?"

[Mr. Slate]

The door whooshed shut behind him, but the sound was lost underneath the hurried footsteps and sharp crack of his cane point upon the paved walkway. To the casual observer Mr. Slate was leaving the Council chamber in much the same way he always did; cane in one hand and his other tucked into the pocket of his immaculate no frill suit. His face as blank as his namesake. His good eye set straight on the path before him. Nothing out of the ordinary.

His quickened step, the sharpness in which is cane connected with the ground, the slight pinch of his face. He might as well have been screaming. A subtley lost completely on those who watched him go; and he paid them no attention in kind. Just another suit in a sea of fabric. Yes, a fitting metaphor. When a body changes the suit must be tailored to fit, and all he saw was a bloated mass of vests and too many sleeves thrown over a frail, emancipated body. Bent over, shaking under the strain of waste it can no longer support.

It wasn't until he was in the safe confines of his personal speeder that he finally let his disapproval show on his face.

"I take it your meeting with the Council did not go well?"

"The full council did not even meet with me. Argon and Wenge were both absent. Council of Nine indeed."

Unfocused eyes watched the landscape pass by. Cookie cutter structures with no flair, no color. Simple. Minimalist. Efficient. Recyclable. In the country-side you might find an old cottage that hearkens back to an age before material restrictions, but here in the capital you would be hard pressed to find a structure that was not identical to those all around it.

"As far as the Council is concerned they are supporting the Huntmaster's peacekeeping initiative. Ms. Sarcoline looked uncomfortable with the situation but never voiced as much. They all seemed hesitant, but had faith, FAITH, in the Huntmaster. They would not hear my complaints about his age or his pedigree. A descendant of Vrashn's line should hold the Lodge. Smudge or Cull, for example. The Gods visit a cruel joke upon us when even the Council of Nine wishes for peace with our neighbors over the continuation of the war. The very idea."

"Is there no one else to appeal to, sir? Surely the word of the Council and Master of the Hunt is not without reproach."

"Perhaps, at one time, the Arbiters held enough power among them to enact such a change, but we are too few these days and the Council does not see fit to elect new Arbiters; nor do I trust the other Arbiters to see our side. No doubt they would side with the Council, if Mr. Light's heresy hasn't already sullied them. No. I fear we are alone in this, Mr. Ash. There is no telling who is trustworthy."

"Change of plans, Mr. Ash. Take me to the Grove."

[Mr. Slate]

There was a peace to be found in the sterile, uncanny white halls of the Birthing and Reproduction Sciences Center. The walls seemed to absorb all sound; eating echoes before they can bounce off the many empty walls. There was a noise underneath it all, a low hum of machinery that could be felt more than heard. As it should, this was more a factory than a laboratory. Colloquial referred to as the Grove in reference to it's founder, Ms. Grove, and due to it's very nature as a place of growing life. Not plant life, as the name might be misconstrued. Rather Leh'beni life.

From the many windows set in doors and walls one could watch the entire process from start to finish. Many freezers held the frozen eggs and sperm of every Leh'ben that had lived since the facility's creation. Many donors could no longer be counted among the living, but their legacy would live on within the Grove. Each sample was explored and mapped for potential, but only the most optimal combinations would ever make it to production. Once decided the pairing was completely and the embryos passed into great incubators. Like a factory the product moved down the line until it was finally finished; and out the other end came a screaming baby.

"I see you've added four more incubators. Increased production is admirable, but I thought we agreed that upgrading the network would speed up the discovery of optimal gene seeds?"

Slate did not need to turn around to know who was behind him. He could see her reflection in the glass. Ms. Amaranth was a hawkish looking woman with eyes that seemed to bore through you. For that very reason Slate preferred to not look at her directly. He did not enjoy the sensation of his flesh being stripped away beneath her gaze. No man had the right to look upon his unprotected soul.

"The Council did not approve the proposal. They demanded more Incubators to increase the number of children born each cycle. There is talk of new colonization efforts."

"We do not need more Templars. They will not be able to protect us should the Lupines ever return now that that we have foolishly given them the time to rebound. No. We need more Hunters, Amaranth. True warriors. Tell me, have you had any success with my batch."

There was a hesitation that did not go unnoticed, and even in the poor image reflected on the glass Slate could make out downcast eyes and a shuffling of feet.

"Unfortunately, we had no more success with your gene seed than any of the others. The results are inconclusive. The individual's connection to the Light has no quantifiable effect on the offspring, even with gifted, strong individuals such as yourself. We still do not know what genetic marker contains the Light. Nothing has produced consistent results. I am a scientist, as you know, but even I must admit that it would seem that the Light is something only God can give. I'm sorry, Arbiter."

[Mr. Slate]

The silence in the speeder was filled with the voice of Ms. Amaranth playing over time and time again in his mind. Each word turned over, every sentence inspected individually. There was nothing to learn, nothing to gleam. No secrets hiding behind her words. It was a clear and straight forward denial of the abstract solution he sought. Every birthing cycle produced a decreasing number of Leh'beni born with Solfar's light. The Guardian Empire was built on the incredible power of each individual capable of wielding incredible power. That threat of power is what had pacified this region, it is what kept their enemies away, and it was the hammer that was brought down upon those who defied them. It was the edge against the Lupines just as much as it was against everything else.

And now that edge was gone.

Failure left a foul taste in his mouth that even the comfort of his sterile office could not remove. Slate found himself sitting silent, still in his chair behind his desk, paperwork on the desktop before him, but he made no move to touch it. Not to lift his pen or even shuffle the paperwork together. The only sound was the old fashioned clock upon his wall and the tickety-tack of Mr. Ash working outside his cracked office door. His eyes watched the clock. It was almost time, and he was never late.

There was no call out from Mr. Ash, no holding open of doors or announcements of arrival. He arrived without herald or pomp. A man in a black suit, black coat, and a matching brimmed hat. He was gaunt and slim, even by the standards of their race. His hollow cheek bones and deep set eyes made him look like a dead thing. From his thin lips escaped a wet whisper.

"Slate."

"Mr. Ex. Pleasure, as always. Please, have a seat. Ash, bring us tea. Arl Savor. Hot. Tell me, Ex, what have you discovered about the Huntmaster? Ah, thank you Mr. Ash."

Even as he raised the tea cup to his lips he could see the misgiving in Ex's eyes, the same look of failure he found in Amaranth. The savory tea touched his lips but he did not drink. He couldn't. His entire being seized, tightening in anticipation for the disappointment that was to come.

"Nothing of consequence, Arbiter."

"Nothing of consequence? Must I remind you that you are a Spy Master."

"The Huntmaster comes from a respectable even if middle class family, excelled at the Academy in the top percentile, and has made a name for himself battling Lupines successfully and campaigning for a myriad of platforms. Equal rights for the Templar, reducing the military surplus budget, and funding new colonization efforts. Most of his interactions with the Council have been behind closed doors, as it should be. Rumor says that he won the vote outright, with only Wenge and Argon voting otherwise. Wenge and Argon, who have not participated in any council meetings in the last several weeks. The most likely reason is that they have been ousted from the Council for differing opinions. I am still investigating that lead."

"Then we have lost our strongest supporters on the Council. I am further stripped of my agency. They are leading us into destruction, and I will have to show them their folly."

"What will you do?"

"I will make Leh'ben great again."

[Mr. Slate]

"How will do you do that?"

"I have already planted the seeds..."

---

Within the far flung and undiscovered depths of Wild Space there existed an otherwise unremarkable expanse of space; a dangerous sector populated with three red dwarf stars all vying for control like fueding kings. Their chaotic, slow moving pathways left only charred, dead planetoids in their wake. So glacial was their journey that life and civilizations may have achieved genesis before the life enabling stars, like wrathful gods, came too close and smote the worlds to dust. Whatever might have been had been gone for billions of years, but not all was lost, for from the wreckage of the twins Amos and Damos, and the lonely Selesh a glittering gem was forged.

It was a violent, dead world that despite it's complete inability to support life still held value. Within it's oceans of turbulent molten lava were far reaching volcanoes and floating land masses rich in minerals. It glowed like a distant fire in the dark blanket of space. So much so that it could be mistaken for a fourth star. Designated Horus 17; the seventeenth mapped planetoid in the sector. It had another name, one that gave it a title deserved by the only remarkable thing in an otherwise dead sector. Horus Prime. From it's depths the resources were gathered to built a state of the art orbital ring around the planet that would house the means to increase the extraction of resources, house thousands, and enable the production of starships.

Today, the Horus Shipyards produce all manner of starships, which are transported back to the core systems for sale. The location of the Horus Sector is a trade secret. You have all agreed to our non-disclosure agreement and any violations will be met with stiff penalties. If you have any questions please forward them to the Sector Command Office. Welcome to Horus Prime. Enjoy your stay.

This message brought to you by Sheegoth Technologies (http://i80.photobucket.com/albums/j162/Digital_Demon/Sheegoth-Logo1_zpsssoni7ti.png)."

"Turn that damn thing off and bring us in, Mr. Clay. We are expected."

"Yes, Arbiter."

"Alert the others. Instruct them to follow us in."

Through the viewport the insidious orbital ring grew in size; it's blackened exterior contrasted against the bright magma of the planet below. Such a construct was an afront to nature and the hubris of ego. However, in certain circumstances, such horror must be braved. For the greater good. The Lawbringers in the shuttle crowded behind him, eager to see the marvel of industry; with it's many starships visible in their docks. Half finished, fleshed out on layer at a time, like a dead animal decomposing backwards to life. The view was fleeting and in no time they were docked.

Slate barked orders at the crews of the three Leh'beni vessels. He was out of patience. Every detail was carefully observed and any fault rectified before the laiden repulsorsleds were finally fit to leave the dock. Taking the lead, Slate led the small army to the doors of the docking bay, where a frightening figure waited for them; all suit, scales and horns. Golden eyes and fangs.

"Welcome, Mr. Slate. I pray your journey was pleasant?"

"It was suitable, Rathalesh. Forgive me, but I have no heart for pleasantries today. Show me your progress."

"Have you brought payment, as we agreed?"

At the wave of a hand the repulsorsleds were brought forth, containing several small, but heavily reinforced crates covered in load instructions and warning labels. Donning a pair of offered gloves Slate wasted no time prying the top off the nearest crate and removing from within a head-sized egg of metal. It was quite unassuming in appearance and had a simple elegance to it that contrasted sharply against the grime and rough edges of the Horus facility.

"One hundred Mana Bombs. As agreed."

"Good. Very good. Come this way."

"Is that a Ysalamir pendant around your neck, Rathalesh?"

"You must be mistaken."

"They must be alive to disrupt Solfar's light."

"I meant no offense. It is simply a precaution."

"I'm wounded, Rathalesh. Truly."

"Then let me mend that wound with this, your ship."

The viewport slid open revealing a massive vessel in space, like a whale in the ocean surrounded by smaller fish as mechanics and starships continued to work on the massive construction. It was a thing of beauty, and built to exacting specifications. It's hull rounded and elegant, it's smooth shape only broken up by scores of weapon batteries and missile pods. The sharp, ugly wedge of a Star Destroyer held no power against such a thing of beauty and power.

"It is almost complete. We still require the power reactor that you are producing, as agreed. It needs only one other thing. Have you a name for it?"

"Yes. Sacrosanct."