The Caravan pt 1

The Caravan set out from Cassini at dawn, a long train of wagons draped in brightly colored sheets of canvas and flanked by guards and mercenary auxiliaries brought by the traders or poorer noblemen. Riding on camels and protected from the blazing sun only by helmets wrapped into a turban, they scanned the distant ridges for a chance to claim reward for spotting the first signs of attack. Behind them, The Marchioness’’ personal guard rode along on two-wheeled engines, flanked by pressured canisters of steam and holding saber and pistol akimbo. Under helmet and plates of armor, they looked forward calm and at the ready, which only served to send tremors of panic through their mercenary shield.

Grinding into the hard-packed earth, oxen and slaves brought from earth’s leaden landscape hurled their bulk against their yolks, pulling the carts and wagons under the watching buzzards. Given every comfort, Gladiators watch through the bars of their cage hoping for a chance to pound their freedom from a wave of marauders invariably peering between the scrub bushes. Fanatics of the Imperial cult walk behind them, their feet unprotected from the stones and eyes bare to the burning dust. Their parched throats sing discordant hymns for the apotheosis of the recently slain hero-king of their suzerainty in Copernicus. Above them, swinging choking incense and resplendent in purple and gold stands a lama. He will stand over his charge, completely unarmed and protected from harm only by the fanaticism of his followers.
Below him, the incense filters into the eyes of wretches behind iron masks, bound by iron chains to the iron scaffolds of the imperial cult’s altar. Men and women write naked, willing and unwilling alike, in penance to his will. Some few of them will walk home in a hair shirt, returning to Cassini with a clean soul. Many of them will never leave the temple at the trade city of Archimedes. They will be sacrificed to the hero-king or enslaved in her service to build wonders in her name.

They are watched by the piercing stares of heretic children, brought from the far northern craters as slaves to the empire in lieu of taxes. They sit in wide-eyed silence under the auspices of a dead-eyed crone who watches every blink and fidget to divine who will join the clergy, who will take up the rifle, who will fill the bureaucracy. She speaks of the Hero-Emperor and her great deeds, and the deeds they will do in her name. An endless supply of children raised to worship the sun or the moon will comprise the fingers of the 3 arms of empire. They nod, eager to please, leaving behind a dirt-floor hut ravaged daily by barbarians in the perpetual twilight of the far far north of Anaxagoras or Baillaud or Scoresby.

A child, large for his age and with a hunter’s sharp eye, hazards a glance away from his teacher to his future. A wall of Janissaries, warrior-slaves loyal to the empire and the corpse of its Hero King glides silently, armed with rifles and spears. Behind this impregnable wall 2 dozen adepts pull the noblewoman’s caravan. They are dressed in fine cloth and protected by a hard turban and the knowledge that if one should fall the rest will not stop pulling. The wheels behind him bear the seal of the hero, assuring that they will die knowing that even the weak know glory as a sacrifice to her return.

Above the menacing wheels the guard captain discusses philosophy with a wandering monk. The captain, under gilded plate and helm, behind tower shield and deadly blade, rubs his pale chin in deep thought while the monk, protected only by a hunting spear and the leather of his skin, lectures on the 8 types of murder which can be done in the heroes name. He can cite great epics from memory, and his Geas will be complete only when he has avenged the murder of a thousand priests. He will travel south to where it is rumored a rectory has been sacked and burned down near the fort of a barbarian king.

In the Library at Rosetta Estates

Albert Goodfrey, dressed in a 3-piece suit, climbed the steps in groups of two. His face, impassive and stern, did not betray his mood which had been quite lightened throughout his trip home. Immediately after the private awards ceremony where he was promoted to Staff Sergeant, commended for valour, and given a medal for sacrificing his eye he had taken a shuttle to the landing pad at copernicus city and begun the long train ride over the shallow bay to the Rosetta Estate. His heart had lifted as the small city of Taruntius, on the sea of Crisis, had loomed over the horizon. And here he was, at the door of his grandfather's master's home - theirs in writing, his in heart.

The door echoed when he knocked, and he waited patiently as the warmth of the afternoon and no scheduled meetings slowed service. The maid hugged him, relief washing over decorum however briefly, and he was led through the halls to his private chambers. His father was still at the dig site with Peter Rosetta, so he spent a moment transferring his clothing to the closet and was pleased to discover no evidence that his quarters had been used or changed in his four year absence.

He found one of the new Valets, hired in his absence to look after one of the younger siblings no doubt, and swallowed his incredulity when told that the young master was in the family library. The room was cavernous and lined with old tomes. A central tower tastefully displayed a series of hard drives, copied long ago from the Rosetta's first successful digs but kept for posterity, a reminder of humbler beginnings. He found the young man hunched over a leather-bound tome, magnifying glass in hand, under a dusty beam of sunlight.

"I have returned from the front, Master Rosetta, Sir."

Young Jacob Rosetta stood as if in the presence of his father or a ghost. He barely kept the chair from clattering to the floor. With family safely away and the help safely tending to the maintainence of the grounds his face broke into a wide grin and he embraced his childhood friend.

"My God, man! Look at you! You look as strong as an Ox! Has it really been four years?"

Albert nodded in agreement, patting his patron's back.

"We've been following you on the feeds, you know. Richard and I. When he heard about your promotion, you should have seen his face! He was so sure CORPORAL Bridges would outrank you in the end just because they're an old navy family. But we knew, my father and I, the Goodfrey's always get the job done. Staff Sergent in one tour." He whistled, impressed that his friend, valet, and second in battle no matter how hypothetical was one of the few to rank so high. Those families that made their money in banking or opium who looked down on him for a family whose noble title came from digging ancient servers out of the dirt, well, they'd be singing a different tune now that his personal servant was so decorated.

"Merely doing my duty, sir."

Rosetta waved his hand, dismissing the modesty. "My father will be home soon, of course. You'll have to wait until he gets back before you start regaling us with war stories, but I admit I'm simply dying to know. Oh, and I'm certain your father will be pleased as well!"

"Of course, Sir. I see you've been keeping yourself busy?" He gestured to the book, and altogether unknown quantity in the life of a younger Jacob Rosetta.

"Oh! Yes. Of course. As soon as I heard about your promotion I set to fulfilling my promise to you. I've gotten a job!"

Albert was many things. A successful soldier, a tireless valet, an excellent cook, and an empathetic listener. He was not, however, divine and as such was unable to keep his eyebrows from raising in a combination of delight, doubt, and overwhelming surprise.

"A Job, Sir?" Best to make sure he'd heard that clearly.

"Oh, Yes." Jacob nodded enthusiastically. "I told my father before he left, I told him 'Father, I'd like to continue the family business!' and since he left to go oversee the new dig in Oregon I've been getting to know the library and meeting with some of father's associates."

"Well, I'm quite happy for you sir. However, unless my eyes deceive me, the tome before you appears to be rather more about Earth's European History. Quite a heady topic, and one unlikely to serve you well in the business of prospecting for information if you don't mind my saying."

Jacob looked confused for a minute, and then laughed. "Of course! Since there's terribly little to do before I can begin following father on his business doings, I have resolved, also, to become a patron of the arts."

"Have you, sir?"

"Indeed, I have! Just last night, Reggie and I - Reggie's a friend from school at Copernicus, you see - Reggie and I went to this horribly dull little party at a beach house by Crisis. He left almost immediately, but one of the owners is an Artist! He and a friend of his are working to write fictional stories from old times, using real characters. They say it will make for entertaining reading, and divulge truths about the nature in which we view history, or so I'm told. They say, when its published, I can use a 'nom d'plume' for my work as a researcher and writer. Its all terribly exciting."

There was a pregnant pause.

"Well, the research itself is actually quite dull, but I helped them write up a story of Winston Churchill and Jack Churchill fighting side by side in one of the more dramatic battles of the Second World War. Seeing the work completed is a great deal more exciting than the reading that must go into it, but i've found it quite gratifying."

"Well, that is very good news, sir. You had mentioned that it is to be published? Will your father be involving himself?"

"Oh no, that's the best part! I still have most of the family money from after I graduated Copernicus, and I'm resolved to publish the thing myself. They don't know about that, of course. They're resolved to do the thing for the art of it, and I don't want to spoil that. I told them, if we could get a finished product I was sure I could get it published, but I don't think they believe me. Just think how excited they'll be! Perhaps I'll be able to start my own book publishing company, and then we can print all of father's server data without having to pay such outlandish fees!"

"Ah, I see your plan now, Sir. I hope it turns out well for you."

At a party somewhere.

Jack's eyes narrowed. He'd come to this party in good faith, bearing a sixer of a microbrew from New Orleans under the assumption that an evening of pleasant social interaction was to be had. He had told himself that the objective here was a wider social circle, and there was nothing to be gained by being judgemental. In many ways it had paid off. The music wasn't what he'd put on, but it was pleasant and carried a straightforward beat at a volume that allowed a modicum of privacy in the small pockets of conversation. The drinks were mostly Do It Yourself 2-part cocktails in the form of various 2-liter bottles of juice and various handles of bottom to mid-shelf liqours. He'd played a bit of scrabble until it had gotten heated, and he'd learned about the local anarchist bookstore, which would give him something to do tomorrow. The house, a sort of commune for 5 or 6 residents who preferred quality of life over privacy, had a back yard complete with 5 guys and a dog arguing over when to flip the hamburgers. There were weed-infused sub-parties upstairs, though following one of those crowds seemed an imposition given the acquaintence who he'd come with had left at eleven under a flimsy pretense. He was flying solo, breaking ice where he could, and so far that had gotten him tied up in a knot with 3 or 4 young men and women who clearly shared an office. They had pounced, in the way he had suspected they would from the start of the conversation, like social raptors sensing prey. So, Jack, what do YOU do?

He pretended to be struggling with a particularly difficult swallow of vodka and tonic, and weighed his options.

"Bullshit, mostly. Anyone want a drink?"

Ignoring requests for reinforcements, he sullenly walked back to the haphazardly organized table of bottles. He'd been working those 3 for what had seemed like half an hour. He'd casually walked by, pretended to take an interest in some fragment of conversation, lurked in the periphery, waited for an opportunity to be clever. Lacking a generous soul, he'd parted the waters by force before being treated to a treatise on Carla from HR, the filthy whore. They were on the precipice of a conversation about the latest weird-for-the-sake-of-truth movie offering when hairgel over there had rather violently shifted the conversation to what we do in exchange for money.

"Can I make you something?"

Jack snapped out of it. A rather charming young man was playing bartender. He introduced himself as Oscar, a resident of the home, and it was an absolute pleasure to meet him. And yes, he had vermouth, along with an altogether better class of gin, and for the modest price of listening to him nerd out about drinks he'd gladly share. This last bit he actually said, word for word. A queen sized bed, picture of a significant other, and second wardobe revealed he was, in point of fact, a giant if unknowing tease. But the drinks were good, and when the usual suspects of conversation subsided he turned to a hasty sketch tacked to the wall.

"Thanks, I'm a little proud of that one. A friend of mine and I are working on a project." He trailed off, until given permission to speak at length.

"Well, we're working on writing and illustrating a couple of hero stories. Just for fun, we haven't talked to a publisher or anything, but I'm hoping we can turn it into a graphic novel. We're using people who really existed, though. We want to use real figures, and just make it as pulpy as possible. Like, what if Churchill had actually gone ahead and stormed Normandy with the troops? Tommy guns and all."

Jack pointed, "Maybe he should be teamed up with Fightin' Jack Churchill."

When quizzed, he revealed that Jack Churchill was the only soldier to kill someone with a Longbow in the whole of WW2, that he'd been disappointed with the use of atomic weapons because it ended the war sooner, and kept him from getting to fight more. Oscar was rapt, letting the ice in his glass melt as he was regaled with tales of a larger than life personality behaving like some kind of Mongolian raider on the steppe.

He was handed a card, and told to contact the writer who was, unfortunately, not in attendance. Drinks concluded, Jack was ushered to a literal social circle and introduced to other residents to enjoy the rest of his evening before stumbling out into the crisp early morning air.

Somewhere on the Dark Side of the Moon

"So, when we come back to life, what's it going to feel like?"
Maria sighed. A squad of almost 30 soldiers were sitting cross-legged around him like a class of kindergartners. They had no uniform aside from the tattered state of their clothes. The fire illuminated their hungry expressions through the perpetual evening of the Dark Side. The stars were out, and beautiful. Under their blanket, groups of tents representing The War-God's mercenary army swayed in the bitter wind. Many of these men hadn't known normal life for over four years, living off tribute from the small farms nearby.

Officer Vega was having a difficult time. When the revolutionaries had stormed her family estate she had been traveling through North Africa as a student. Her attempts to find any trace of them had been a frustrating waste of the years. The end of the Tsar's reign had taken from her a life as a member of court. All she had now was her trade. The hulking thrall that loomed behind her was proof of that. And today, she had been attached to a squadron of the Baron's finest infantrymen. Or so he had said. They didn't look like soldiers worth bringing back from the grave to keep up the fight.

"You won't feel anything." She said. This did not seem to calm anyone down.

A round-faced boy with a mouth like a perfect O pointed at the Revenant who was presently staring at the sky. "We're gonna look like that?

She sighed again. "No, you will not look like Boris. In life, Boris was a Bear."

There was a general murmur of understanding at this. The silence that followed was absolute. Boris turned to the flames with glassy, unblinking eyes. The Baron had told her these men would be proud to be so valued, but she doubted he would care about their concern. Soon, they would be laying siege to the walled city of Daedalus. Their first attack had been a shambles, even though the shamans had declared the date auspicious. They had burned the whole supply of wood, making 3 campfires for every soldier. They must look terrifying in the dark.

Castle Mechta Barracks, 2060

The bulbous heads of lunar children poked over the walls surrounding the training fields for the Royal Guard of the Crown. This clear breach of security was overlooked as a matter of tradition. When the harvest was done for the day in the surrounding eternal summer young boys deeply comitted to the prospect of causing as much trouble as possible want to make sure they are playing soldier correctly.

In their eyes the men who marched and performed combat exercizes were not real. The halls of the Castle Mechta were lined with myths wrapped in royal dress. Many of the boys who watched were already a full head taller than these guardsmen, but they seemed to occupy so much space. They had all heard tale of criminals in far off places who were unable even to pierce the skin of these monsterous men.

Combat drills were their favorite. Unarmed or armed with clubs they struck each other hard enough to careen across the field. They swung weighted sticks that no mere man could lift, and bounded yards at a time to fall upon their prey. Surely, the weakest among them could break the strongest man from the moon in half without so much as a thought.

Kojo Pierce, translucent shield in hand, was batting away his sparring partner. He was told that one of his fellow guardsmen was as strong as six to ten enraged lunar rioters. Not that he would have to worry about that at the castle. Life was good, if dull, and he had to go out of his way to keep his mind alive during the long hours of standing at attention in front of the gates.

Oddly, he'd been promoted after proving an able marksman on the Wall, protecting the vast network of steam engine trains which rode in and out from under the castle crater. It was gruelling under the constant sun, but he'd learned quick to lead a target and shoot to wound. As a reward for his quality work, he'd been promoted to stand still for long hours and never have to touch a rifle again.

The club wrapped in fome struck him in the chest, knocking him back about 5 meters as he struggled to right himself and catch his breath. he landed inelegantly, was unable to stop the backward momentum, and skipped like a rock on a still pond before planting his shield and feet into the dirt. That had been happening a lot, lately. Losing sight of his surroundings.

Kujo looked up at the young terrors watching them on the distant wall, and envied them their inisght.

Somewhere near Crater Pasteur, 2060

The crooked wings of the owl circling the smoldering ruin of the eternal night's campfire campfire maintained the hush over a small bandit camp. Arthur took off his glasses and peered disapprovingly at the engine before him, grotesquely splayed on the warm tundra. He seemed distinctly out of place, standing straight and proper with a panama hat on his sandy, sunbleached hair. Surrounded by mongrel men in leathers and chains and armed with hand-me-down arms and armor he scrutinized every detail of the craftsmanship at hand.

Clutching a spanner as if to rend it in half, The mechanic Henricks just wished the feared Warboss Arthur Pendrake would start yelling and be done with this infernal waiting. That was the worst thing about riding with Pendrake. When things were good the plains were yours. Even the mad ones, darksiders who ran whooping and blind across the plains, ran off in fear of Pendrake's Knights and their rumbling trucks and bikes.

Arthur returned his glasses, which wrapped around his face and illuminated the darkness in shades of green. From this view, all of his boys had glowing eyes, staring at him like cats in the night, waiting for his decision. He had ordered a Flagship built and a Flagship he now had, the underappreciated genius Hendricks must have sewn and sundered four looted royal caravans. What stood before him was a fortress on wheels - spotlights in all directions and rifleholes scattered throughout the lower and upper decks. The massive engine block countered by the gattlin' gun 'round back. He counted eight tires. He couldn't count the spikes.

What an awful machine. He cleared his throat.

"Henricks, what do you call her?"

Cherrie, was the meek reply, to the warming laughter of the boys circled around their ever loving boss and his pet grease monkey. The tension had broken. No one was going to be shot.

"Cherrie. A beautiful name for a beautiful girl." He slid his hands along an ugly spike laced with rust, "I'd love to see her in makeup. What do you boys say we ride into town and pick up a lick of red paint?"

There was a roar of cheers and engines as bands of boys leapt into trucks and hollared for blood. It was always a good time when they went over into the light side.

2060, Castle Mectha, Copernicus City

The firm clip of the marchioness' heels echoed up the duststone walls of the spiral staircase. Even through the myriad stained glass windows the shock of autumnal leaves from the royal forest reminded her that there were matters to attend to at home. She had been saddled with the responsibility for her people beyond the sea of tranquility, and her life as courtesan would have to come to a close.

Her husband had died, and the Archduke of Luna had inited her to the Royal Aviary.

The wisp of a boy who had brought the message as she had sent the last of her husbands things to be shipped and unpacked before her arrival had offered no explanation before turning neatly and marching away. She had allowed herself only a sip of red wine for courage lest she keep his excellency waiting. Her face untouched by makeup and dressed for travel rather than an audience, she did not hover before the glass double doors. As soon as they had clicked shut she exited the cage and into the wirecrossed dome at the height of Castle Mectha.

The Archduke stood, book in hand, staring at the upper crescent of Earth. The molten landscape, indistinguishable from its leaden seas, lit up with constellations of tiny white flashes. She had learned long ago not to comment on the beauty of such distant explosions of light and smoke in front of the earthborne. The men grow quiet and distant, and women cry for no reason. The Archduke Turned.

Like all men from Earth he was short, barely over a meter and a half tall. Earth was a savage place, she had learned from a young age, where even the size of the planet itself drags you down. From such an upbringing, it is not surprising that one grow up short, inelegant and impossibly strong.

"Nino," the informality struck her, "Your husband was a good friend to the Crown." The depth of his voice gave weight to his suddenly personal tone. "And I'm sorry he spent we spent our lives as enemies."

At this, even the birds ceased to sing.

"His lands, now yours, are far beyond the Sea of Tranquility. Far from Mectha and its comforts. Plagued by bandits. I have no business there and even if I did, my guard would deny you my presense. It is a hiding place for rebels and saboteurs, like all places. Unlike all places, it is known as such."

As the duke ceased to speak, Marchioness Nino Tamar of the Crater Taruntius swallowed her rage. Baseless accusations which had plagued her late husband until his death. He, a petty noble, held dominion over the lands which ran through her family, in her blood and through her veins. From the shores of the Seas of Tranquility and Fertility to the south and the Sea of Crisis to the north, traders from the dark side came to her ports and hid in her firmicus mountains. It was her navies, not the crowns, which kept pirates at bay. Her soldiers that kept what little peace that could be had. And their reward for this service? The chance to beg for funds and men enough to continue the labor.

Her husband had been a lot of things - soft in the head first and foremost. Her soldiers were caked in grime and vulgar. Her traders were dishonest and farms and businesses corrupt. Crown Taxmen were chased away by ugly mobs, and caravans were beset by bandits. Her estates were hardly fit to recieve the Earl of Lawrence or DaVinchi - even the Baron of Watts had complained.

But they were not traitors, and to hear the accusation coming not from the whispers bored courtiers trying to stir up trouble but from His Excellency Archduke Regolith Peter Constantine Zond broke her heart and blinded her with rage. She concealed both with a glance to a fat and happy raven perched on the spindly branches above.

"Until we are sure about the circumstances of the late Marquis' death, I must assume the worst. Protocol demands I extend a member of my Royal Guard to ensure your safety. He will arrive within the week."

"Good day, Marchioness"

And with that, he turned back toward the crescent Earth.