The Caeresi Incident
07 Jan 2021Ironwatsas
Jan 03, 3307Deep within the dark reaches of the Caeresi system, the dark and foreboding shape of a reformatory ship looms in the dim light from a distant red star. Orbiting a frozen ice world, it projects a gloomy ambiance fitting for a place of restitution and bondage.
The hulking prison megaship, designated CAR-627 Bellmarsh-class reformatory, belonging to the Caeresi Prison Colony, made its way along its flight path through the backwater Imperial system. The perfect place to hold convicts - or political prisoners - away from prying eyes.
But the vessel’s transit did not go unobserved…
Through the frigid black came a lone snoop. A Diamondback Scout, rigged for silent running, and with the sun at its back, drifted close to the prison vessel. The ship had been painted jet black, and was configured for stealth operations, in the vein of one of the infamous patterns used by Lavigny’s Legion. It was virtually invisible as it shadowed the prison ship, with only a brief flicker of blue as a recon limpet deployed. The drone attached itself to a data port on the surface of the vessel, and released its payload, prying through security encryption, firewalls, and deftly exploiting every human factor vulnerability inherent to the system.
It found what it sought. A list of names, affiliations, and most importantly, cell block numbers. A list that most certainly did not match what the CPC had officially reported to ISS.
Its job done, the Black Diamondback briefly fired its thrusters, and slinked into the void from whence it came.
—
Three Days Later
A trio of ships emerged from frame shift space, consisting of an Adder and two Viper Mk3s, painted in ISS colors of the Conjunct Security Group, controlled by the HIP 114367 Patron's Principles faction. In formation, they approached the prison ship unassumingly.
“CAR-627, this is CSG flight 29, we are here on official business. Requesting permission to moor with your vessel.” The pilot of the Adder spoke, as he navigated the vessel toward the megaship.
There was a brief pause before the com-net crackled a reply. “Ahh, CSG-29, flight control here, ahh… we’re not aware of any scheduled inbound, over.”
Behind the pilot, Lord Iron stood, nodding silently. It was expected there would be bureaucratic inertia at work, even in the smallest of affairs. But this mission had been rehearsed before.
The pilot nodded as well. “CAR-627, please check with your supervisors. We have a scheduled appointment.”
“Wait one.” The flight control responded.
Iron walked back from the cockpit into the hold of the vessel. A small team of aides-de-camp, and shipboard security personnel from Conjunct and governor Glover’s defense forces, stood. Checking their suits and weapons.
“Now, you’ve all been briefed so I will only reiterate the pertinent details. Rules of engagement are to not fire unless fired upon. I will speak with the Warden, if he fails to comply promptly or tries to resist, we go loud. Assault transport Hangman is on standby with reinforcements and to extract the prisoners. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Iron. We will hold ingress and egress routes until Hangman can dock and provide backup, but if I may?” The squad leader asked, raising a concern.
“Yes?”
“PID is going to be extremely difficult if the cell blocks are opened. How do we know who is Nova Imperium, who is NMLA, and who is neither?” He asked.
“If they are not in the blocks you are looking for, they are NMLA.” Iron spoke, coldly.
“I know some of you may be wondering why you should risk your lives for these servants of the False King, but the Emperor has made a decree pardoning them. Failure of the CPC to comply and its willingness to tolerate, if not embrace NMLA sympathies, stands in violation of the Emperor’s will. Your job is to enforce her will, so you will do your duty, as I will do mine. We will attempt to handle the matter nonviolently, but I suspect the rot is deep enough that it will need to be excised with fire.”
“Yes sir.” The men spoke in unison, knowing better than to question their mission further.
In the cockpit, the comm net crackled to life once again. “CSG-29, you are cleared to moor. Approach at two-zero-four, docking port 16.”
—
The clank of metal boots against the steel floor, magnetically anchored in the microgravity environment, echoed through the dark, foreboding metal tomb that was the hull of the prison ship. Lord Iron, flanked by two aides and bodyguards, strode toward the administrative deck, arriving at the warden’s office, noting a secretary skulking out just prior to his arrival, moving quickly away upon noticing the three men arrive.
“Mr. Colberg.” Iron’s mechanically filtered voice caused the warden, who was clearly trying to put on a poker face to cover his nerves, to snap to attention.
“Ahh, yes. Governor Glover’s associate, Mr… Iron. We’ve been expecting you. Come in, come in.”
The trio wasted no time in entering, the associates standing in the corner, while Iron stood before the warden. The short, portly man wore an unkempt suit over a badly fitting Remlok underlayer, standing in contrast to Iron, in full body armor and with a faceless, cyclopean helmet. “Ahh, Might I offer you refreshments?” He asked, a farcical request if ever there was one.
“Dispense with the pleasantries, Mr. Colberg. We have business to discuss.” Iron spoke, bluntly, putting a dataslate in front of the warden.
“I am certain you are aware of Her Majesty the Emperor’s decree, signed 16 November 3306, stating that in accordance with the Treaty of Paresa, any Nova Imperium affiliated are to be granted an official royal pardon and summarily released. This decree was disseminated to every detention facility across the Empire, including your own, as we have a certificate of receipt signed 17 November.”
“Of course, Mr. Iron.” The warden nodded. A well practiced formal smile attempting to cover up any tells that might betray his true intentions. “And I am sure you are aware we are in full compliance with any and all of Her Majesty’s decrees. All of the Nova Imperium prisoners that were aboard our ship or incarcerated within our organization’s other facilities were emancipated over a period of two weeks following Her Majesty’s degree, pursuant to screening for any unrelated crimes. So I do not understand what yo-”
“Is that so? According to your ship’s manifests, you had 1276 persons incarcerated aboard. 627 of which were charged with ‘seditious conspiracy’. Those being the Nova Imperium sympathizers rounded up from the greater Kamocan area. Your official reports state that you have 721 persons aboard your ship; 642 incarcerated for unrelated crimes, minus 5 natural deaths or transfers, plus 79 new arrivals.”
“That is correct. I can present you the documentation with regards to the release of the Nova Imperium prisoners if you so require it, though I fail to see wha-” The Warden attempted to respond, though it was clear he was on to what Iron was getting at.
“Please explain then, why, according to your ship’s own manifests, which state very clearly based on life support data and internal persons audits, why you have 1355 persons on your vessel?” Iron asked, placing the dataslate containing information recovered by the stealth ship previously.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Iron, but clearly there is some mistake. You will find that all of our information is accurate. Any discrepancies are likely due to out of date information or incompetence within auditing organizations.” He replied.
“Be that as it may, for the sake of confirming that these reports are indeed erroneous, we would insist that we be allowed to deploy a team to inspect this vessel’s cell blocks and question certain persons aboard. Prisoners, staff, and crew.” Iron made the request.
“Well, that is all rather sudden… but again, I can assure you that any discrepancies can be explained without the need for an extensiv-.” The Warden was again, cut off.
“I wasn’t asking. Failure to permit an inspection of this vessel to persons belonging to a security organization of the Empire will be reported to IISS. And I doubt you will want anyone poking into your personal communiques, Mister Colberg.”
“I beg your pardon?” The Warden’s gaze narrowed, his well practiced ‘professional suck up’ expression starting to turn to a noticeable scowl.
“Does the term Omega Grid ring a bell?” Iron asked, pointedly.
“No. And I must say, Mr. Iron, your line of questioning is growing dangerously close to breaking Decorum.” The Warden replied.
“Unfortunate. It is certainly something your associates should have made you aware of. Because we have intercepted communications over public Insight networks, funneled through General Corporate Hub in Okua'gsa. Originating from this vessel using standard ISS encryption, CPC digital watermarks, and your personal metadata, Mr. Colberg. Routed directly to the Mudhrid system…“
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if you are coming to my ship and falsely implying any wrongdoing on my desk, then I am going to have ask you to leave, and I will be filing a formal complaint with Governor Glover for breach of decorum and unwarranted accusations.“ The Warden replied, though the bead of sweat appearing on his crooked vow betrayed that Iron had hit a nerve. Unseen, however, the warden pressed a button under his desk, activating a silent alarm to the ship's security office...
—
Outside, the ship's security guards and riot squads began to arm and move into position, one group made their way toward the access airlock, another toward the warden’s office.
The sound of magnetic boots moving along the grated steel corridors of the ship was not lost upon the squad left at the airlock door. “Iron, Alpha lead. We’ve got movement. SITREP.”
Before Iron could respond, the turrets on the exterior of the prison ship went active, unfolding from their hardpoints and taking aim at the docked Adder. The shuttle's shields were down, and the crew barely had time to chime in to alert before the turrets fired, causing the adder to erupt in a gout of flame, which quickly evaporated into the vacuum.
The prison ship shuddered as the reverberations from the blast went through the shield. Then, the first staccato of small arms fire began to echo through the halls as the CPC personnel opened fire.
—
“What the…!?” One of the aides-de-camp accompanying Iron called out.
Iron did not flinch. With a mechanical sort of motion, he drew his Manticore Tormentor from its holster. “I believe that, proves my point.” He spoke, coldly.
The Warden had a brief window to see what was happening, his life flashing before his eyes as he reached for his own sidearm, but it was too late. Iron fired, point blank, at the man’s head. With predictably grisly results.
“India-Whiskey to all callsigns, go loud, I repeat, go loud. Hangman. Echo squadron. Contingency Green. You may consider all CPC vessels and crew expendable.”
—
Within minutes, the reinforcement squadron jumped in. A group of Imperial Eagles, Couriers, three Anacondas, and a heavily modified Orca used as an assault transport jumped into the area.
Opposing them, an assortment of CPC system security vessels, including Viper Mk3s and 4s, Asp scouts, and a few Krait MkIIs, moved to counter. The resulting melee quickly lit up the surrounding area, as pulse lasers dashed against shields, multi cannons and plasma accelerators tore through hull, and precise railgun shots sent the pilots of the opposition to the next life.
The reinforcement Anacondas began bombarding the Prison Ship’s external power couplings with long range cannons and plasma accelerators to suppress the turrets, while Assault Transport Hangman rushed in to initiate a forced breach, and deliver its cargo of shock troops aboard. It's shields and hull obstinate against enemy fire as the vessel maneuvered into position.
Inside the prison ship, a firefight had broken out. The marines brought with Iron’s entourage were exchanging with the CPC riot guards. The destruction of their transport adder had damaged the docking clamps, so the squad had to fight their way across the ship to secure an undamaged docking port.
“Iron, Alpha lead. We’re taking heavy fire, under suppression. We need to get to mooring clamp zero-two-starboard. Can you give us a hand over here?”
—
“I can do better than that. A golden apple of discord cast down the throat of our foe.” Iron spoke, cryptically.
His armored hand pushed the limp carcass of the warden from his seat, causing it to lazily float against the wall in the microgravity environment. Taking his place, Iron removed a specialized e-breach from his inventory, affixing it to the office’s control terminal. A quick scan to clone the deceased warden’s security authorization was all it took.
Backdoors which had been uploaded from the earlier recon mission were activated, causing cell block doors to unlock and open, security blast doors to close, internal turrets to deactivate, and many of the ship’s ancillary systems to shut down.
The results were, of course, predictable. Riots quickly broke out all across the ship as prisoners, both political and common thugs, grabbed whatever instruments they could and set upon the confused guards. The security staff were then likely deafened when a squawk of ear-splitting white noise went through their headsets, causing enough of a distraction for Alpha Squad to continue its retreat.
—
The CPC riot squad gathered outside the office was undeterred, they could be heard with an Arc Cutter attempting to breach the door.
“We’re trapped in here, they’re going to breach us.” The Aide-de-camp spoke. Both he and his comrade had donned helmets and personal shields over their formalwear, and held their sidearms aimed at the door.
“I am aware. My Sword, Mr. Dracus.” Iron extended his hand.
The second Aid, ‘Dracus’, nodded. He went to his suitcase, and quickly opened it to reveal its contents, including a short sword.
It was a straight-edged single blade crafted by the finest swordsmiths of the Imperial Hattori Clan, given to Lord Iron by none other than Commander Jubei Himura, during the former’s time as an associate of Darkwater Authority. It was an elegant weapon with a practical purpose; it had been specially equipped with an electromagnetic inlay which allowed it to penetrate personal shields. A tool of ISS assassins, enforcers, and special forces, it was an arcane weapon wielded by few in the empire.
Such that it was, when the CPC breacher discharged his energylink tool to open the door, he barely had time to shoulder his weapon when the red-orange streak of the blade lashed from the opened office door, cutting him and the man to his right down.
Iron had little patience for finesse or fineries with the blade, he was not a swordsman, but a martial pragmatist. But simply hacking one’s opponent down like a woodsman taking a hatchet to the trunk of a tree is just as effective as a Samurai’s form when your foe is not expecting it. The berserk rampage was followed up by the aides tactically egressing the room, firing into the two bewildered CPC Guards to their right, while Iron slashed at the chest of the next guard in line at his left.
The guard tried to shield himself with his rifle, causing the blade to bite into the side of it, disabling the weapon and its wielder’s shield in the process. Before the desperate guard could grasp his sidearm, Iron discharged his tormentor into his chest. The squad was now dead, but more would soon be coming.
“Lord Iron, we need to egress and link up with Alpha, sounds like Hangman is cutting through and we’ll have reinforcements any second.” Dracus spoke over his shoulder as his comrade held a lane of fire down the hallway.
“You two go. Inform them that the Nova Imperium prisoners are on sublevels 3a, 4d, and 6z. Secure egress routes and get them back to Hangman. I have another task to see to on this miserable ship.” Iron replied, picking up the dropped Arc Cutter as he went.
“Sir, with all due respect, the rest of this ship is going to be a bloodbath. It’s a complete madhouse down there!” Dracus responded.
“Yes. It is. That is the point. But you came here for a different purpose than I. Evacuate the prisoners and see yourselves home. I will secure alternate means of evacuation.” Iron spoke, before turning away from the two men, and striding down the path before him.
Both of them likely thought Iron was mad. Of course, that was likely a majority opinion of those around Borrego Orbital who spoke to him. Dracus merely shrugged, and the two men made for the escape airlock.
—
An orchestra of violence had taken hold in the bowels of the Prison ship. With every cell on the ship open and the prisoners rioting, the guards went to the old fallback of ‘shoot everything that moves’. Several sections of the ship had been vented into space, others were shooting galleries, yet others, where few guards were present, had simply broken into all out brawls as the prisoners settled scores amongst themselves, or tried to get their holds on something to use as a weapon.
The fracas was all to Iron’s benefit. Without word, without remorse, he slew prisoner and guard alike. Few stood any chance against him. His armor was the equivalent of the highest-spec Dominator suit on the market. Most of the guards wore, at best, a remlock suit with a uniform over it, and the prisoners simply wore basic fatigues. The motley collection of pipes and sidearms they possessed did little to faze the cold consciousness that bore down upon them.
Iron had a specific destination. A seemingly nondescript compartment near the ship’s engineering section. 274-EN. It was a round room. A plain gray metal room where three maintenance corridors met, with a few sections of conduit running here and there, and a fan with a misty blue glow coming from behind it. And, most importantly, no sensors or security cameras were present in this area of the ship.
This place was chosen with reason. Lord Iron set about gathering the bodies of those he had felled. Effortlessly pushing them through corridors in the microgravity, as his metal boots clanked against the walls. Through the bulkheads, yells of pain, gunfire, and muffled blasts from the battle outside the ship echoed. But no one would come down here to this soon-to-be-damned place. No one would come to look for a few misplaced bodies. And anyone who did would very quickly find themselves among them, as none would be allowed to interrupt this dark, but essential, deed.
And so, Lord Iron set about with his true mission.
The prison break of Nova Imperium inmates, while an important task in its own right, was largely a convenient cover. By now, those who had survived the escape were being shuttled aboard Hangman, soon to be whisked back to Borrego Orbital. Governor Glover would contact Commander Yumasai of the Nova Navy to arrange the transfer of persons back to Paresa.
For Iron though, he had but one ordained duty. Using the Arc Cutter, he began etching first a pattern, then a circle, then a Sigil into the floor of the room. Quietly, he muttered verses most occult. Riddles to an unseen ear. Calls to unseen forces. In a language unspoken for millenia, which turned the air of the chamber foul with its potency.
For centuries, the practice of Thaumaturgy, which unprofessional minds call ‘Magic’, was considered the stuff of fiction, stage performers, and children’s stories. It is a study and application of Mysteries. A means of wonder-working. Of Miracles. Few understood it as anything more than superstition or fiction in the 3300s, fewer still practiced it.
Humanity’s embrace of the sciences, of rationality, and development of education and information technology to the exclusion of ancient beliefs and superstitions, combined with the diffuse spread of mankind away from Earth, actively suppressed the ability to perform Thaumaturgic arts in most cases, though there were still ways. Acts of faith, use of symbolism, ancient tomes, animist rituals, and other means darker and more foul…
Iron shut down the Arc Cutter. The Rune had been Cast. An ostentatious six point star surrounded by concentric bands of text in a long dead language. Eight trigrams were cut surrounding the rune, and in the center, an occult symbol that... well, to describe it in any detail would prove cognitively hazardous to you, the reader.
Such that it was, Lord Iron considered these grisly actions necessary. He took one of the bodies, then another, then another still. Opening them with his blade and extracting the Ichor that once gave life. This was the law of ‘Equivalent Exchange’. For something to be given, something of equal value must be taken away. This was a Thaumaturgic truth that any occultist must know. However, there does exist a sort of inflation. The inherent difficulty in using such abilities in outer space created fundamental barriers. Barriers that escalated the cost required to perform such a ritual to an extreme that few would be able to stomach, let alone execute.
But Iron was both pragmatic and unfettered by moral constraints.
With a wave of his hand and an unrepeatable utterance, the blood, floating in the zero-gravity like red beads in the stale air, fell unto the sigil as if some fictional form of artificial gravity had activated. It pooled, flowing into the freshly cut sigil. Sizzling as it contacted the hot metal, and starting to glow with an otherworldly orange luminescence.
In the air, the voices that Iron had chanted before repeated, but it was not Iron speaking them. They came from all around, everywhere, and nowhere. Voices of Witchspace itself, first a distant murmur, then growing into a cacophony, then a screaming clamor of restless spirits. Some cursing, some raging, some incoherent, some clear as day. Iron knew these voices, knew some no doubt belonged to powers that may prove… problematic in the future. The glow of the blood rune grew brighter. The voices grew louder, a cold, dark presence began to fill the room, as an apparition that stalked the night.
And then, a single sound broke through the barrier. A lone infant’s cry.
If Lord Iron had a face beneath his mask, he would be smiling. From his pocket, he pulled the small, silk wrapped book he had previously shown Governor Glover. A book that one could call a Perfect Memento, in the strictest sense, anyway.
“And so she is born again. Now she must be found.” Iron spoke aloud, before returning the book to its pouch. None were alive to hear his words. And none would know what had transpired.
Lord Iron had chosen this place with reason. In addition to its circular shape and size suitable for the carving of the rune, room 274-EN was located next to a plasma conduit from the ship’s engines. He would need to erase evidence of this ritual, lest the authorities, mundane and otherwise, come for him. Something that no doubt complicate his duties.
Iron pulled several bricks of plastic explosives from his inventory, and methodically planted them on the outside casing of the plasma line. The blast would disrupt the electromagnets within, rupture the casing, and flood the chamber and those surrounding it with multi-million-degree plasma, burning away any evidence of the dark deed done here in a purifying flame to purge the vileness of the act.
Setting the timer on a short fuse, with just enough of a delay for him to escape, Iron turned his back on the carnage he had created to find but a single soul in a sea of untold trillions. He strode with haste through the corridors and passageways toward a nearby escape pod rack.
He arrived, loaded himself into the pod, and using an e-breach, overrode the launch sequence just as the muffled blasts as the charges detonated and sent a gout of all consuming flame and plasma tearing through the sublevels of the ship.
The pod released just in time, floating away from the battered prison ship. The space battle had long concluded, wreckage floating listlessly around. Assault transport Hangman and its escort had fled back to HIP-114367. All save for a single, black-hulled Diamondback scout, which launched forth a single collector limpet toward the pod.
—
Let us ask ourselves, what is the difference between a Murder, and a Sacrifice.
A Murder is just that. An infliction of meaningless death. An act of animal barbarism, to destroy a life without meaning. Witness the cutthroats and vultures who circle around the stars of Shinrarta Dezra, Deciat, or wherever the stellar Community sets its goals to, attacking innocent Commanders like predatory beasts. Or the raiders who descend from the frigid black to settlements upon a thousand worlds, to kill and loot without purpose or reason.
A Sacrifice on the other hand, has purpose. Thereby, Death is a tool. Mortal pain, grief, loss, anguish, are currencies to be bartered. It is the Axiom of Equivalent Exchange, Power demands Sacrifice, and Sacrifice begets Power.
That which was shall be again. The cycle of life, death, and apotheosis shall continue until the end of time.
Not that the Judge of the Dead would have any particularly kind words for such cold methods to viewing the results of her handiwork. But alas, never have We seen eye to eye before…